SPECIMENS 


VIS  SiWMlAll  fSlfei 


Dr>i?TT^TXT.T^r ulgencc  than 

PRELIMINARY   REMAIvb 

object  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


TRANSLATED  _d     of 

BY  JOHN  BOWRING,  F.  L.  S.     .o  ascer- 

" *iitroduce   to 

c  other  countries. 
.___  srpreter,  would 

nt. 

BOSTON : 

PUBLISHED  RY  OUMMINGS  AND  HILHAHJ). 

Hilliard  &  Metealf,  Printers. 

1823. 


«/3W?6'         s^* 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Thts  book  solicits  more  indulgence  than 
It  is  likely  to  obtain.  It  is  not  its  object  to 
secure  eulogies  for  the  poets  of  Russia,  but  to 
exhibit  in  its  different  characteristics  one 
branch  of  the  infant  literature  of  an  extraor- 
dinary and  powerful  nation  ; — to  remove  in 
some  degree  the  too  general  ignorance  which 
prevails  in  this  country,  as  to  the  state  of 
letters  in  the  north  of  Europe, — and  to  ascer- 
tain how  far  similar  efforts  to  introduce  to 
English  readers  the  bards  of  other  countries, 
who  have  as  yet  found  no  interpreter,  would 
probably  meet  with  encouragement. 


■  ^ 


/ 


Vll 

I  bore  ye  from  the  regions  of  the  north, 
Where  ye  first  blossom'd,  flowers  of  poetry ! 
Now  light  your  smiles  and  pour  your  incense  forth 
Beneath  our  Albion's  more  benignant  sky. 

I  cull'd  your  garlands  'neath  the  Polar  star, 
From  the  vast  fields  of  everlasting  snow, 
Adventurous  I  transplant  your  beauties  far  : — 
Still  breathe  in  fragrance,  still  in  beauty  glow. 

Within  our  temple  many  a  holy  wreath, 
Hallowed  by  genius  and  by  time,  is  hung  : 
At  our  old  altar  many  a  bard  has  sung, 
Whose  music  vibrates  from  the  realms  of  death. 

I  may  not  link  your  lowlier  names  with  theirs — 
The  giants  of  past  ages  : — but  to  bring 
To  our  Parnassus  one  delightful  thing, 
Would  gild  my  hopes  and  answer  all  my  prayers. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Introduction        -  xi 

Derzhavin           -         -         -         -  1 

Batiushkov      -  43 

Lomonosov  63 

Zhukovsky     -        -        -        -  71 

Karamsin            -  103 

Dmitriev         -         -         -         -  117 

Krflov 129 

Khemnitzer              -        -        -  135 

Bobrov      -         -         -         -         -  145 

Bogdanovich            -         -         -  163 

Davidov     -         -         -         -         -  175 

Kostrov           -         -         -         -  179 

Neledinsky  Meletzky            -         -  1S3 

National  Songs        -         -         -  192 

Biographical  and  Critical  Notices  199 

Death  of  Ossian  (from  the  Dutch)  236 


INTRODUCTION. 


When  the  subject  of  this  volume  occupied 
my  attention,  my  plan  was  an  extensive  one. 
I  designed  to  write  a  general  history  of  Rus- 
sian literature.  It  seemed  a  most  interesting 
object  to  trace  the  progress  of  letters  in  a 
country  which  had  emerged,  as  it  were  in- 
stantaneously, from  a  night  of  barbarism,  to 
occupy  a  situation  in  the  world  of  intellect, 
not  contemptible,  even  when  compared  with 
that  of  southern  nations  ;  but  singularly  strik- 
ing as  contrasted  with  the  almost  universal 
ignorance  which  pervaded  the  immense  em- 
pire of  the  Tzars  before  Peter  the  Great 
gave  it  the  first  impulse  towards  civilization. 
That  purpose  I  have  not  wholly  abandoned ; 
but   I  have   deemed   it   desirable,  as  a   prior 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

step,  to  publish  a  few  translations  of  the 
poetry  of  a  people,  the  political  influence  of 
whose  government  on  the  rest  of  Europe 
has  been  long  moving  with  gigantic  strides, 
and  will  soon  be  more  sensibly  felt.  If  they 
are  deemed  deserving  of  attention,  some  de- 
sire will  perhaps  be  excited  to  know  more 
about  their  authors ;  but  should  these  speci- 
mens be  considered  worthless,  little  curiosity 
can  be  felt  to  ascertain  how,  and  when,  and 
by  whom  they  were  written. 

Lomonosov*  is  the  father  of  Russian  po- 
etry. It  did  not  advance  from  step  to  step 
through  various  gradations  of  improvement, 
but  received  from  his  extraordinary  genius  an 
elevation  and  a  purity,  which  are  singularly 
opposed  to  the  barbarous  compositions  which 
preceded  him.  His  works  have  been  collected 
into  six  volumes ;  and  his  name,  as  well  as 
that  of  his  rival,  Somorokov,  has  already  found 

*  or  Broken  Nose. 


INTRODUCTION.  XU1 

its  way,  with  some  particulars  of  his  life  and 
writings,  into  our  biographical  dictionaries.* 
Somorokov,  whose  productions  are  very 
voluminous,  and  were  once  considered  models 
of  grace,  beauty,  and  harmony,  has  been 
much  neglected  of  late  years.  His  dramatic 
compositions  are,  for  the  most  part,  gross  and 
indecent ;  his  contemptuous  jealousy  of  Lomo- 
nosov,  though  so  greatly  his  superior,  is  often 
most  ridiculously  intruding  itself;  but  in  one 
point  of  view,  at  least,  he  is  entitled  to  respect 
and  gratitude.  He  is  the  eldest  of  the  Russian 
fabulists ;  the  introducer  of  a  species  of  com- 
position, in  which  Russian  poetry  possesses 
treasures  more  varied  and  more  valuable  than 


■■  Under  the  engravings  of  Lomonosov  an  eulogium  is  gen- 
erally found,  of  which  the  following  is  a  translation  : 

Where  Winter  sits  upon  his  throne  of  snow, 
Thus  spoke  the  bright  Parnassian  Deity  ; 
"  Another  Pindar  is  created  now, 
The  king  of  bards,  the  lord  of  music,  he." 
9md  Russia's  bosom  heaved  with  holy  glow — 
•'  My  Lomonosov  !  Pindar  lives  in  thee  !" 
o 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

that  of  any  other  nation.  It  is  no  mean  praise 
to  say,  and  it  may  be  said  truly,  that  Russia 
can  produce  more  than  one  rival  of  the  de- 
lightful La  Fontaine.  Of  the  dramatic  writ- 
ings of  Somorokov,  the  best  is  the  tragedy  De- 
viltry Samosvanetz,  or  The  False  Demetrius.* 

Von  Visin,  who  seems  to  have  made  Mo- 
liere  his  model,  improved  greatly  upon  So- 
morokov. His  two  most  celebrated  comedies 
are  Nedorosl,  The  Spoilt  Youth,  and  Brigadir, 
The  Brigadier. f 

Kheraskov  holds  a  hi°h  rank  anions:  the 
lyric  poets  of  Russia.    He  died  a  few  years  ago. 
He  was  curator  of  the  Moscow  University. 
He  published  a  collection  of  his  poems,  which 

*  The  history  of  this  extraordinary  man  may  be  found  at 
length  in  Coxe's  travels,  ii.  36(5 — 393. 

tl  do  not  feel  myself  qualified  to  give  an  opinion  on  the 
present  state  of  the  Russian  stage  :  but  the  translations  repre- 
sented there  from  the  French  and  German  drama  arc  of  ac- 
knowledged merit ;  and  many  original  pieces  have  been  of 
late  produced,  of  which  their  literary  men  speak  with  gr< 
delisrht  and  even  enthusiasm. 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

he  entitled  Bakhariana,  ill  Neisviestnij ;  Bach- 
ariana,  or  The  Unknown  ;  but  his  great  work 
is  Rossiada,  Hi  Rasrushchenie  Kasanij ;  The 
Russiad,  or  The  Destruction  of  Kasan. 

But  of  all  the  poets  of  Russia,  Derzliavin 
is,  in  my  conception,  entitled  to  the  very  first 
place.  His  compositions  breathe  a  high  and 
sublime  spirit ;  they  are  full  of  inspiration. 
His  versification  is  sonorous,  original,  charac- 
teristic ;  his  subjects  generally  such  as  allowed 
him  to  give  full  scope  to  his  ardent  imagina- 
tion and  lofty  conceptions.  Of  modern  poets, 
he  most  resembles  Klopstock :  his  Oda  Bog, 
Ode  on  God,  with  the  exception  of  some  of 
the  wonderful  passages  of  the  Old  Testament, 
"  written  with  a  pen  of  fire,"  and  glowing  with 
the  brightness  of  heaven,  passages  of  which 
Derzhavin  has  frequently  availed  himself,  is 
one  of  the  most  impressive  and  sublime  ad- 
dresses I  am  acquainted  with,  on  a  subject  so 
pre-eminently  impressive  and  sublime.  The 
first  poem  which  excited  the  public  attention 
to  him  was  his  Felizia. 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

Bogdanovich  has  obtained  the  title  of  the 
Russian  Anacreon.  His  Dushenka  (Psyche) 
is  a  graceful  and  lovely  poem.  He  has  also 
written  several  dramatic  pieces. 

Bobrov  was  well  acquainted  with  the  litera- 
ture of  the  South  of  Europe,  and  has  trans- 
fused many  of  its  beauties  into  his  native 
tongue.  Our  English  writers  especially  have 
given  great  assistance  to  his  honest  plagiarism. 
His  Kliersonida,  an  oriental  epic  poem,  is  not 
so  good  as  Lalla  Rookh,  hut  it  is  very  good 
notwithstanding. 

The  name  of  Kostrov  closes  the  list  of  the 
most  eminent  among  the  deceased  poets  of 
Russia.  He  died,  not  long  ago,  in  the  merid- 
ian of  his  days.  He  had  made  an  admirable 
translation  of  Homer,  and  was  engaged  in  a 
version  of  Ossian,  which  he  left  unfinished :  the 
conclusion  has  since  been  added  by  Gniedich. 

Of  all  the  living  writers  of  Russia,  or  rath- 
er of  all  the  writers  Russia  ever  produced. 
the  most  successful  and  the  most  popular  is 
Karamsin.      Derzhavin  called   him  Ions  ago 


INTRODUCTION.  XVII 

"  the  nightingale  of  poetry,"  but  it  is  not  to 
his  poetry  alone  that  he  owes  his  fame.  Stand- 
ing on  the  summit  of  modern  literature  in 
Russia,  he  has  been  loaded  with  honours  and 
distinctions,  which,  however,  have  not  served 
to  check  his  wonted  urbanity,  or  to  chill  his 
natural  goodness  of  heart.  When  a  young 
writer,  he  was  fond  of  imitating  Sterne  ;*  a 
very  bad  model,  it  may  be  added,  since  the 
peculiarities  which  characterize  him  are  only 
tolerable,  because  they  are  original.  Karam- 
sin's  style  was  then  usually  abrupt  and  unnat- 
ural, and  its  sentimentality  wearisome  and 
affected.  But  he  has  outlived  his  errors,  and 
established  his  reputation  on  their  subjection. 
His  great  undertaking,  the  Rossijskaje  htorije 
(History  of  Russia)  is,  without  comparison, 
the  first  and  best  literary  work  which  has 
been  produced  in  the  country  it  celebrates.  It 
was  received  with  loud  eulogiums  throughout 

*  Especially  in  his  Puteshestvennik,  (or  Traveller.) 
2* 


XV1H  INTRODUCTION'. 

the  Russian  empire ;  it  has  been  translated 
iiito  several  European  languages,  and  will 
probably  long  maintain  a  pre-eminent  rank 
among  R  issian  classics,  and  become  one  of 
the  standard  authorities  of  history.* 

The  peculiar  excellence  of  the  Russian  fab- 
ulists has  been  mentioned.  Somorokov  and 
Khemnitzer,  Dmitriev  and  Krilor,  are  the 
most  distinguished  among  them.  Dmitriev, 
who  is  still  living  at  Moscow,  has  published  a 
great  number  of  fables  and  ballads.  His  style 
is  easy,  harmonious,  and  energetic ;  some  of 
his  compositions  have  a  sublimer  character ; 
his  religious  poetry  is  dignified  and  solemn ; 
his  elegies  are  tender  and  affecting. 

*The  German  translation  is  faithful, but  heavy  and  ill-writ- 
ten. The  French,  tolerably  written, perhaps,  but  miserably 
incorrect;  Karamsin  told  me  he  had  discovered  two  hundred 
errors  in  the  first  volume  alone.  The  Italian  is  a  rendering 
from  the  French.  As  a  proof  of  the  estimation  in  which  Ka- 
ramsin is  held,  I  may  mention  that  I  learned  at  Petersburg,  that 
several  thousand  copies  of  this  voluminous  work  were  distrib- 
uted in  a  few  weeks ;  and  it  was  said,  the  author  received 
fifty  thousand  rubles  for  the  copy-right  of  the  second  edition. 


INTRODUCTION.  XlX 

Krilov  holds  an  office  in  the  imperial  libra- 
ry at  Petersburg.  He  is  well  known  to  the 
bons  vivans  of  the  English  club.  His  heavy 
and  unwieldy  appearance  is  singularly  con- 
trasted with  the  shrewdness  and  the  grace  of 
his  writings.  He  has  published  one  volume  of 
fables,  remarkable  for  their  spirit  and  origin- 
ality. He  now  employs  himself  in  translat- 
ing Herodotus,  having,  at  an  advanced  period 
of  life,  first  entered  on  the  study  of  the  lan- 
guages of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome. 

Zhukovskij  has  printed  some  poetical  trans- 
lations of  peculiar  excellence.  His  Liudmilla 
(an  imitation  of  Leonora)  is  deemed  more  beau- 
tiful and  forcible  than  the  original  itself.  Bur- 
ger appears  to  have  captivated  him.  He  has 
written  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  and  is  now 
engaged  as  a  companion  to  the  Grand  Dukes. 

I  believe  Batiushkov  is  now  in  Italy.  His 
most  celebrated  composition  is  his  Address 
to  his  Penates,  which  will  be  found  in  the 
present  volume.     As  it  introduces  in  a  very 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

agreeable  manner  the  most  eminent  of  the 
Russian  poets,  and  contains  some  allusion  to 
Russian  manners,  it  will  not,  I  hope,  be  with- 
out interest  to  the  English  reader. 

These  translations  are  printed  under  a 
humbling  sense  of  their  many  imperfections. 
No  one  can  be  more  alive  than  myself  to  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  communicating  to  a  fo- 
reign version  the  peculiar  characters  of  the 
original.  The  grace,  the  harmony,  the  happy 
arrangement,  the  striking  adaptation  of  words 
to  ideas ;  every  thing  in  fact,  except  the  pri- 
mary and  naked  thought,  requires  for  its  per- 
fect communication  a  genius  equal  to  its  first 
conception  :  and  indeed  the  fate  of  translators, 
who  have  in  general  had  all  their  merits  put  to 
the  account  of  their  author,  and  all  their  de- 
fects unsparingly  to  their  own,  might  well 
alarm  new  adventurers  from  this  perilous  sea. 

One  thing,  however,  is  certain  ;  I  have  in- 
tended no  wrong, — I  hope  I  have  done  no 
wrong,  to  the  names  and  to  the  works  I  now 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

introduce  to  my  countrymen  ;  I  mean  only  to 
be  an  honest,  conscientious  interpreter.  Many 
of  the  charms  of  their  compositions  have  prob- 
ably escaped  me:  their  faults,  I  am  afraid, 
are  but  too  faithfully  rendered  ;  I  have  discov- 
ered many,  but  I  dared  not  meddle  with 
them. 

The  measure  of  the  original  has  been  gen- 
erally preserved.  This  adhesion  to  one  of  the 
distinguishing  characters  of  poetical  composi- 
tion has  been  made  of  late  quite  a  point  of  con- 
science in  Germany  (a  country  which  possesses 
a  greater  number  of  excellent  and  faithful 
translations  than  all  the  united  world  besides  ;) 
and  as  far  as  the  genius  of  the  language  will 
admit,  I  hope  it  will  become  so  in  England.* 

*  The  merits  of  Shakspeare  were  never  fully  recognised 
till  he  was  clad  in  garments  something  like  his  own.  There  is 
generally  no  idea  in  this  country  of  tiic  sublime  and  imposing 
character  of  the  writings  of  Klopstock,  for  they  have  never 
been  presented  to  us  in  any  thing  like  their  original  form.  If 
any  one  wish  to  study  the  freezing  eifect  of  a  translation 
made  in  conformity  to  what  are  called  the  prejudices,  or  the 


XX11  INTRODUCTION. 

A  few  words  on  the  peculiarities  of  the  Rus- 
sian language  will  not,  perhaps,  be  misplaced.* 

The  mother-tongue  of  nearly  forty  millions 
of  human  beings,  and  which  in  the  course  of 
thirteen  centuries  has  undergone  no  radical 
change,  is  indeed  entitled  to  some  attention.  All 
Russian  grammarians  claim  for  it  an  antiquity 
at  least  equal  to  that  of  the  city  of  Novogo- 
rod.  The  oldest  written  documents  that  exist 
are  two  treaties  with  the  Greek  emperors, 
made  by  Oleg,  A.  D.  912,  and  Igor,  A.  D.  943. 
Christianity,  introduced  into  Russia  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  eleventh  century  by  Vladimir 

habits  of  a  people,  let  him  read  the  Hamlet  of  Moratin  ;  a 
man  confessedly  of  extraordinary  talent ;  a  dramatic  writer 
of  most  distinguished  success,  and  who  has  preserved  a  gen- 
eral faithfulness  to  the  sense  of  his  author,  even  in  this  trans- 
lation ;  let  him  compare  this,  or  any  of  the  plays  of  Le  Tour- 
neur,  or  the  choicest  passages  of  Ducis,  with  ten  lines  taken 
at  random  from  Voss,  or  Schlegel,  and  the  argument  will  be 
fully  understood. 

*It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  the  first  Russian  Grammar 
ever  published  was  published  in  England.  It  was  entitled 
C.  W.  Ludolii  Grammalica  Russica,  qui  conlinet  et  manuduc- 
tivntm  yuandam  ad  Grammaticam  Sclavonicam.     Oxon.    1696 


INTRODUCTION.  XX1U 

the  Great,  brought  with  it  many  words  of 
Greek  origin.  The  Tartars  added  greatly  to 
the  vocabulary  during  the  two  centuries  of 
their  domination.  The  intercourse  which  Peter 
the  Great  established  with  foreign  nations,  in- 
creased it  still  more  ;  and  of  late  years  a  great 
number  of  words  have  been  amalgamated  with 
it  from  the  French,  German,  and  English.  It 
is  now  one  of  the  richest,  if  not  the  richest,  of 
all  the  European  languages,  and  contains  a 
multitude  of  words  which  can  only  be  express- 
ed by  compounds  and  redundant  definitions  in 
any  northern  tongues.  Schlozer  calculates, 
that  of  the  five  hundred  roots  on  which  the  mo- 
dern Russ  is  raised,  three-fourths  of  the  num- 
ber are  derived  from  Greek,  Latin,  and  Ger- 
man. Many  are  of  Sans-crit  origin,  of  which 
Adelung  published  a  list  in  1811.* 

Printing  was  introduced  into  Russia  about 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
oldest  printed  book  which  has  been  discovered 

■  Rapports  enlre  Its  Langues  Rv.ssc  tt  Sam-rrile. 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

is  a  Sclavonic  Psalter,  bearing  the  date  Kiev, 
1551  ;  two  years  after,  a  press  was  established 
in  Moscow.  The  Sclavonic  alphabet,  said  to 
have  been  introduced  by  Cyrillus  in  the  ninth 
century,  consists  of  forty-two  letters.  The 
modern  Russ  has  only  thirty-five :  those  un- 
known to  the  English  are  as  follows : 

Letters.  Sounds  and  Orthography  adopted 

0       .  ph. 

Xf  •         •         .     kh  (guttural.) 

-TJ  •         •         •  tz. 

\[  ...     ch  (hard,  as  in  chance.) 

HI  •  sh. 

JTJJ  .         .         .     shtsh,  or  shch. 

*  I  have  adopted  dt  to  convey  the  sound  of  this  teller,  though 
it  is  sometimes  rendered  by  j ;  it  is  nearly  equivalent  to  the 
French  j,  as  in  jar din,  jaunt;  or  to  s  and  s  in  the  English  words 
measure,  vision,  azure. 

t  A  strong  guttural ;  the  Greek  y,. 

t  This  i^  the  letter  which  disfigures  Russian  words  so  much 


INTRODUCTION. 

H*       • 

.     i  (dull  i.) 

h  t    • 

terminal. 

h  t       . 

.     ditto. 

!B  §    • 

03. 

K)||       - 

.     iu. 

Ji      . 

je. 

XXV 


when  written  in  Roman  characters.  "  I  defend,"  whicli  has 
but  seven  letters  in  the  original,  is  thus  conveyed  by  fourteen — 
sashchishchaju ;  and  much  more  awkwardly  in  the  German 
system  of  orthography  by  twenty — saschtschischtschajit .  Its 
exact  sound  may  be  produced  by  connecting  together  the  two 
last  syllables  of  the  words  establis/;/-c/mrch. 

*  The  shiblohth  of  the  Russian  alphabet.  It  is  hardly  ever 
well  pronounced  by  foreigners.  It  is  a  deep,  indistinct  artic- 
ulation, something  like  i  in  bill. 

\  A  mere  expletive  ;  and  yet  so  common  that  SchlOzer  says, 
to  abandon  it  would  diminish  the  trouble  and  expense  of  writ- 
ing and  printing  five  per  cent.  It  occurs,  on  an  average,  fifty 
times  among  a  thousand  letters.  It  can  only  be  used  as  the 
termination  of  a  syllable  or  a  word. 

t  This  letter,  which  is  also  a  terminal,  gives  to  the  conso- 
nant that  precedes  it  the  sound  which  the  French  call  mmdlUl 
as  in  ai\\e  agneau;  like  gn  or  gl  in  Italian;  in  Spanish  the 
n  or  11.     I  have  adopted  an  apostrophe  '  when  it  is  introduced. 

§The  close  e  of  the  French. 

||  The  English  (/,  asin  union,  universe,  always  pronounced  iu. 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

Besides    these,   there   are    several    letter* 
Which  seem  almost  identical  as  to  sound : 
E  and  9  *         .         .         -for  e. 

H  —  It     .        -        •        -  i- 
c  —  3t       •       •      •   —  »■ 

Of  the  above, 
III  appears  a  compound  of  III  and  i[. 

K) I     -  Y. 

fl I     -  E. 

0  (theta)  and  "\f  (npsilon)  form  a  part  of 
the  Russian  alphabet,  but  are  seldom  used. 
h,  c,  x,f,  and  iv,  are  wanting  altogether. 

The  Russian  language  may  be  adapted  to 
almost  every  species  of  versification.  It  is 
flexible,  harmonious,  full  of  rhythmus,  rich  in 

*  Is  of  modern  introduction,  and  is  used  principally  in  the 
beginning  of  words  of  foreign  origin,  as  Edinburgh,  Etymology. 

t  The  first  of  these  is  used  before  a  consonant,  the  latter  be- 
fore a  vowel. 

%  C  is  the  sharp  s  or  ss,  as  in  lass :  3  the  soft  single  s,  as  usu- 
ally pronounced  in  the  middle  of  words  ;  e.  g.  muse 


INTRODUCTION  XXV11 

compounds,  and  possesses  all  the  elements  of 
poetry.  From  the  following  examples  in  dif- 
ferent measures,  some  idea  may  be  formed  of 
its  natural  music. 

TROCHAICS   OF   SEVEN  AND  EIGHT  SYLLABLES. 

Stonet  sisoi  golu  bochik 

Stonet  on  i  den'  i  noch' ; 

Ego  milen'koi  druzhechik, 

Otletoe'l  daleko  proch.'*      Derzhavin. 

IAMBICS  OF  SIX  AND  SEVEN  SYLLABLES. 

Sakoni  6  suzhdaiut, 

Predmet  moei  liubvi : 

No  kto,  o  sfcrdtze  !  mozhet, 

Protiv'it'sje  tebae'.f  Karamsin. 

*  Deeply  sighs  the  little  wood-dove, 
Deeply  sighs  he  day  and  night ; 
His  beloved  heart-companion 
Far  away  has  wing'd  her  flight. 

t  But  law's  imposing  fetters, 
My  burning  love  restrain  : 
Yet  who,  0  heart !  could  ever 
O'er  thee  a  victory  gain  ? 


XXV111  INTRODUCTION. 

DACTYLICS   OF   SEVEN  AND  EIGHT  SYLLABLES-. 

Svae'ri  raboti  ne  snaiut, 

Ptitzl  zhivut  bes  truda; 

Liudi  ne  svae'ri  ne  ptitzl, 

Liiidi  rabotoi  zhiv'ut.*  Karamsin. 

ALEXANDRINES. 

Bozhestvenni'i  metall !   krasjeshchii  istukanov, 

Zhivotvorjeshchaje  dusha  pusti'kh  karmanov.f 

Von  Visin. 

HEXAMETERS  AND  PENTAMETERS. 

Tam,  tam   ssetovat'  ranas  ves'vaek  moi !    gorestnii 

mrachnii 
Kazhdii  medlennii  den',  kazhduiusuzhasom  noch'.f 


*  Beasts  of  the  field  never  labour, 
Birds  of  the  forest  repose  ; 
Man,  neither  one  nor  the  other, 
Man  is  appointed  to  toil. 

t'lhou  godlike  metal  gold  !  that  mov'st  the  very  statues. 
And  to  an  empty  purse  can  give  a  living  spirit. 

%  There,  there  do  I  wear  out  life's  pilgrimage,  sorrowing  and 
dreary, 

While  the  day  in  its  misery  rolls,  and  tlie  terrible  night. 


INTRODUCTION.  Xxix 

Rimes  are  either  masculine  or  feminine : 
the  former  have  the  accent  on  the  last  syllable, 
the  latter  on  the  penultimate  : 


Masculine. 

Feminine.' r 

iskal 

loboiu 

stal 

krasoiu 

tzar 

poru 

tvar 

goru* 

The  productions  of  the  Russian  press  are 
no  index  to  the  national  cultivation.  The 
great  majority  of  that  extensive  empire  are 
yet  little  removed  from  the  uncivilized  and 
brutish  state  in  which  they  were  left  by  the 
Ruriks  and  the  Vladimirs  of  other  times.  Un- 
fortunately, society  has  few  gradations ;  and 
there  is  no  influence  so  unfriendly  to  improve- 
ment, no  state  of  things  so  utterly  hopeless, 
as  that  produced  by  a  domestic  slavery  built 


*The  best  Russian  Grammar  I  have  met  with  is  Tappe's 
Thcortlisch-praklischz  Russische  Sprachlchre.  I  have  availed  my- 
self of  it  for  many  of  the  preceding  observations. 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

upon  the  habits  of  ages.  In  Russia,  the  next 
step  from  absolute  dependence  is  nobility ;  at 
least,  the  intermediate  classes  are  too  incon- 
siderable to  be  here  considered.  The  strength, 
the  intelligence,  the  public  and  the  private 
virtue  of  our  middling  ranks,  which  serve  so 
admirably  to  cement  the  social  edifice,  are 
there  wanting.  All  sympathy  is  partial  and 
exclusive.  In  this  country,  the  spirit  of  in- 
formation, wherever  elicited,  rapidly  spreads 
over  and  glows  in  every  link  of  the  electrical 
chain  of  society.  It  mounts  aspiringly,  if  it 
have  its  origin  among  the  less  privileged  or- 
ders ;  and  it  descends  through  all  the  beautiful 
gradations  of  rank,  when  it  has  its  birth  in  the 
higher  circles  :  it  is  diffusive — it  is  all-enlight- 
ening. But  in  Russia,  however  bright  the 
flame,  it  is  pent  up,  it  cannot  spread.  The 
noble  associates  with  the  noble ;  the  slave 
herds  with  the  slave ;  but  man  has  no  com- 
munion with  man.  No  spot  is  there,  whether 
sacred  to  science  or  to  virtue,  in  which  the 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXI 

;'  rich  and  poor"  may  "  meet  together,"  equal- 
ized though  but  for  a  moment,  as  if  the  com- 
mon Father  were  indeed  "  the  Maker  of  all ;" 
and  assuredly  the  Russian  nation  can  make  no 
striking  progress  in  civilization  till  the  terrible 
barriers  which  so  completely  separate  the  dif- 
ferent ranks  are  destroyed.     The  million,  un- 
instructed  and  unambitious,  will,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  be  long  held  in  the  fetters  of  vassalage. 
The  personal  interests  of  the  ruling  few  are 
too  clearly,  too  fatally  opposed  to  the  meli- 
oration  of  the  subject   many,  to   allow   any 
thing  to  be  hoped  for  from  these  lords  of  the 
soil.     There  are,  it  must  be  confessed,  active 
minds,  generous  energies,  at  work ;  but  where 
is  their  influence  seen  ?      To   lead   such   an 
immense  nation  through  the  different  stages  of 
improvement,  to  rational  and  permanent  lib- 
erty,  were    indeed    an  object  worthy    of  the 
most  aspiring,  the  most  glorious  ambition.     It 
were  an  achievement  not  to  be  hailed  by  the 
blast  of  trumpet,  nor  the  roar  of  artillery  ;  (the 


XXXU  INTRODUCTION. 

world,  recovering  from  its  drunken  infatuation, 
is  well  nigh  weary  of  the  unholy  triumphs 
which  have  been  thus  celebrated  ;)  it  were  an 
achievement,  which  would  hand  down  the 
name  of  him  who  should  effect  it  to  future 
ages,  linked  with  the  gratitude,  the  virtue,  the 
happiness  of  successive  and  long  enduring 
generations. 

For  the  interesting  notices  at  the  close  of 
this  volume  I  am  indebted  to  my  illustrious 
friend  Von  Adelung.  Thus  to  thank  him  is 
the  least  return  I  can  make. 

J.  B. 


;m* 


I 


RUSSIAN  ANTHOLOGY. 


DERZHAVIN. 


GOD* 

O  Thou  eternal  One  !  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide ; 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight  j 
Thou  only  God  !  There  is  no  God  beside  ! 


*  This  is  the  poem  of  which  Golovnin  says  in  his  narrative, 
(hat  it  has  been  translated  into  Japanese,  by  order  of  the 
emperor,  and  is  hung  up,  embroidered  with  gold,  in  the  Tem- 
ple of  Jeddo.    I  learn  from  the  periodicals,  that  an  honour 


4  DERZHAVIN. 

Being  above  all  beings !  Mighty  One  ! 
Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore ; 
Who  fill'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone  : 
Embracing  all, — supporting, — ruling  o'er, — 
Being  whom  we  call  God — and  know  no  more  ! 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep — may  count 

The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays — but,  God !  for  Thee 

There  is  no  weight  nor  measure: — none  can  mount 

Up  to  Thy  mysteries  ;  Reason's  brightest  spark, 

Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 

To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark  : 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 

Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 


something  similar  has  been  done  in  China  to  the  same  poem. 
It  has  been  translated  into  the  Chinese  and  Tartar  languages, 
written  on  a  piece  of  rich  silk,  and  suspended  in  the  imperial 
palace  at  Pekin. 

There  is  in  the  first  verse  a  variation  from  the  original, 
which  does  not  accord  with  my  views  of  the  perfections  of  the 
Deity. 


DERZHAVIN.  *> 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
First  chaos,  then  existence  ;— Lord  !  on  Thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  : — all 
Sprung  forth  from  Thee  : — of  light,  joy,  harmony, 
Sole  origin  : — all  life,  all  beauty  Thine. 
Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 
Thou  art,  and  wert,   and  shalt   be  !    Glorious ! 

Great ! 
Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate  ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround  : 
Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath  ! 
Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death  ! 
As  sparks  mount  upwards  from  the  fiery  blaze, 
So   suns   are   born,   so  worlds  spring   forth   from 

Thee ; 
And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 
Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise.* 


*The  force  of  this  simile  can  hardly  be  imagined  by  those 
who  have  never  witnessed  the  sun  shining,  with  unclouded 
1* 


0 


DERZHAVIN. 


A  million  torches  lighted  by  Thy  hand 
Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss: 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command 
AH  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Piles  of  crystal  light — 
A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright — 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams  ? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Yes  !  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost : — 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee  ? 

And  what  am  /then  ?  Heaven's  unnumber'd  host. 

Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 


splendour,  in  a  cold  of  twenty  or  thirty  degrees  of  Reaumur. 
A  thousand  and  ten  thousand  sparkling  stars  of  ice,  brighter 
than  the  brightest  diamond,  play  on  the  surface  of  the  frozen 
snow;  and  the  slightest  breeze  sets  myriads  of  icy  atoms  in 
motion,  whose  glancing  light,  and  beautiful  rainbow-hues, 
dazzle  and  weary  the  eye. 


DERZHAVIN.  7 

In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance  weighed 
Against  Thy  greatness,  is  a  cypher  brought 
Against  infinity  !  What  am  I  then  ?     Nought ! 

Nought !     But  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reach'd  my  bosom  too  j 
Yes  !  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine 
As  shines  the  sun-beam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Nought !  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 
Eager  towards  Thy  presence  ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high, 
Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 
I  am,  O  God  !  and  surely  Thou  must  be  ! 

Thou  art!  directing,  guiding  all,  Thou  art! 
Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee  ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart : 
Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 
Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  by  Thy  hand  ! 
I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 


8  DERZHAVIN. 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land  ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me ; 

In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 

And  the  next  step  is  spirit — Deity  ! 

I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 

A  monarch,  and  a  slave  ;  a  worm,  a  god  ! 

Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  f    so  marvellously 

Constructed  and  conceived  ?    unknown  !  this  clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy  ; 

For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be  ! 

Creator,  yes  !  Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me !  Thou  source  of  life  and  good  ! 
Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord  ! 
Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 
Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 
Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source — to  Thee — its  Author  there. 


©ERZHAVIN. 

O  thoughts  ineffable  !  O  visions  blest ! 
Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 
And  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity. 
God  !  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar  ; 
Thus  seek  Thy  presence — Being  wise  and  good  ! 
Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore  j 
And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more, 
The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


19  BERZHAVIN. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MESHCHERSKY. 

Ah  !  that  funereal  toll !  loud  tongue  of  time  ! 
What  woes  are  centred -in  that  frightful  sound  ! 
It  calls  !  it  calls  me- wfth  a  voice  sublime, 
To  the  lone  chambers  of  the  burial  ground. 
My  life's  first  footsteps  are  midst  yawning  graves ; 
A  pale,  teeth-clattering  spectre  passes  nigh, 
A  scythe  of  lightning  that  pale  spectre  waves, 
Mow?' down  man's  days  like  grass,  and  hurries  by. 

Nought  his  untired  rapacity  can  cloy  : 
Monarchs  and  slaves  are  all  the  earth-worm's  food ; 
And  the  wild-raging  elements  destroy 
Even  the  recording  tomb.     Vicissitude 
Devours  the  pride  of  glory ;  as  the  sea 
Insatiate  drinks  the  waters,  even  so  days 
And  years  are  lost  in  deep  eternity ; 
Cities  and  empires  vandal  death  decays. 


DEHZHAVIN.  11 

We  tremble  on  the  borders  of  the  abyss, 
And  giddy  totter  headlong  from  on  high  ; 
For  death  with  life  our  common  portion  is, 
And  man  is  only  born  that  he  may  die. 
Death  knows  no  sympathy;  he  tramples  on 
All  tenderness — extinguishes  the  stars — 
Tears  from  the  firmament  the  glowing  sun, 
And  blots  out  worlds  in  his  gigantic  wars. 

But  mortal  man  forgets  mortality ! 
His  dreams  crowd  ages  into  life's  short  day  ;— 
While,  like  a  midnight  robber  stealing  by, 
Death  plunders  time  by  hour  and  hour  away. 
When  least  we  fear,  then  is  the  traitor  nigh  ; 
Where  most  secure  we  seem,  he  loves  to  come  : 
Less  swift  than  he,  the  bolts  of  thunder  fly, 
Less  sure  than  he,  the  lightning  strikes  the  dome. 

Thou  son  of  luxury  !  child  of  dance  and  song, 
O  whither,  whither  is  thy  spirit  fled  ? 
On  life's  dull  sea  thy  bark  delayed  not  long, 
But  sought  the  silent  haven  of  the  dead. 


VI  DERZHAVIN. 

Here  is  thy  dust !     Thy  spirit  is  not  here  \ 
Where  is  it  ?  There.  Where  there  f  'tis  all  unknown : 
We  weep  and  sigh — alas  !  we  know  not  where ! 
For  man  is  doubt  and  darkness'  eldest  son  ! 

Where  love,  and  joy,  and  health,  and  worldly  good. 
And  all  life's  pleasures  in  their  splendor  glow ; 
He  dries  the  nerves  up,  he  congeals  the  blood, 
And  shakes  the  very  soul  with  mighty  woe. 
The  songs  of  joy  are  funeral  cries  become — 
And  luxury's  board  is  covered  with  a  pall — 
The  chamber  of  the  banquet  is  a  tomb  : 
Death,  the  pale  autocrat,  he  rules  o'er  all. 

He  rules  o'er  all — and  him  must  kings  obey, 
Whose  will  no  counsel  knows  and  no  control ; 
The  proud  and  gilded  great  ones  are  his  prey, 
Who  stand  like  pillars  in  a  tyrant's  hall. 
Beauty  and  beauty's  charms  are  nought  to  him, 
Man's  intellect  is  crush'd  by  his  decrees  ; 
Man's  brightest  light  his  dreadful  frown  can  dim — 
He  whets  his  scythe  for  trophies  such  a"s  these. 


DERZHAVIN.  13 

Death  makes  all  nature  tremble  !     What  are  we  ? 
To-morrow  dust,  though  almost  gods  to-day ! 
A  mixture  strange  of  pride  and  poverty  : 
Now  basking  in  hope's  fair  and  gladdening  ray, 
To-morrow — what  is  man  to-morrow?     Nought! 
How  swiftly  rolls  the  never-tarrying  stream, 
Hour  after  hour,  to  gloomy  chaos  brought ; 
While  ages  dawn  and  vanish  like  a  dream  ! 

Even  like  an  infant's  sweet  imagining, 
My  early,  lovely  spring-tide  hurried  on  : 
Beauty  just  smiled  and  sported,  then  took  wing  ; 
Joy  laughed  a  moment,  and  then  joy  was  gone. 
Now  less  susceptible  of  bliss,  less  blest, 
Wiser  and  worldlier,  panting  for  a  name  ; 
With  a  vain  thirst  of  honour,  pain'd,  opprest. 
I  labour  wearied  up  the  hill  of  fame. 

But  manhood  too  and  manhood's  care  will  pass, 
And  glory's  struggles  be  ere  long  forgot ; 
For  fame,  like  wealth,  has  busy  wings,  alas ! 
\ml  joy's  and  sorrow's  sound  will  move  us  not. 


14  1>ERZHAVIN. 

Begone,  ye  vain  pursuits,  ye  dreams  of  bliss, 
Changing  and  false,  no  longer  flatter  me  ! 
I  stand  upon  the  sepulchre's  abyss, 
In  the  dark  portal  of  eternity. 

To-day,  my  friend  !   may  bring  our  final  doom  •+ 
If  not  to-day,  to-morrow  surely  will : 
Why  look  we  sadly  on  Meshchersky's  tomb  ? 
Here  he  was  happy — he  is  happy  still  1 
Life  was  not  given  for  ages  to  endure, 
Though  virtue  even  on  death  may  find  a  rest : 
But  know — a  spirit  order' d  well  and  pure, 
May  make  life's  sorrows  and  life's  changes  blest. 


DERZHAVIN.  15 


THE  WATERFALL. 

Lo  !  like  a  glorious  pile  of  diamonds  bright, 
Built  on  the  steadfast  cliffs,  the  waterfall 
Fours  forth  its  gems  of  pearl  and  silver  light : 
They  sink,  they  rise,  and  sparkling,  cover  all 
With  infinite  refulgence  ;  while  its  song, 
Sublime  as  thunder,  rolls  the  woods  along-^- 

Rolls  through  the  woods — they  send  its  accents  back, 
Whose  last  vibration  in  the  desert  dies  : 
Its  radiance  glances  o'er  the  watery  track, 
Till  the  soft  wave,  as  wrapt  in  slumber,  lies 
Beneath  the  forest-shade  ;  then  sweetly  flows 
A  milky  stream,  all  silent,  as  it  goes. 

Its  foam  is  scattered  on  the  margent  bound, 
Skirting  the  darksome  wood.     But  list !  the  hum 
Of  industry,  the  rattling  hammer's  sound, 
Files  whizzing,  creaking  sluices,  echoed  come 


16  DERZHAVIN. 

On  the  fast-travelling  breeze  !    O  no  !    no  voice 
Is  heard  around,  but  thy  majestic  noise  ! 

When  the  mad  storm-wind  tears  the  oak  asunder, 
In  thee  its  shivered  fragments  find  their  tomb  ; 
When  rocks  are  riven  by  the  bolt  of  thunder, 
As  sands  they  sink  into  thy  mighty  womb  : 
The  ice  that  would  imprison  thy  proud  tide, 
Like  bits  of  broken  glass  is  scattered  wide. 

The  fierce  wolf  prowls  around  thee — there  he  standi 
Listening — not  fearful,  for  he  nothing  fears  : 
His  red  eyes  burn  like  fury-kindled  brands, 
Like  bristles  o'er  him  his  coarse  fur  he  rears  ; 
Howling,  thy  dreadful  roar  he  oft  repeats, 
And,  more  ferocious,  hastes  to  bloodier  feats. 

The  wild  stag  hears  thy  falling  waters'  sound, 
And  tremblingly  flies  forward — o'er  her  back 
She  bends  her  stately  horns — the  noiseless  ground 
Her  hurried  feet  impress  not — and  her  track 


DERZHAVIN.  1 1 

Is  lost  amidst  the  tumult  of  the  breeze, 

And  the  leaves  falling  from  the  rustling  trees. 

The  wild  horse  thee  approaches  in  his  turn  : 
He  changes  not  his  proudly  rapid  stride, 
His  mane  stands  up  erect — his  nostrils  burn — 
He  snorts — he  pricks  his  ears — and  starts  aside  ; 
Then  madly  rushing  forward  to  thy  steep, 
He  dashes  down  into  thy  torrents  deep. 

Beneath  the  cedar,  in  abstraction  sunk, 

Close  to  thine  awful  pile  of  majesty, 

On  yonder  old  and  mouldering  moss-bound  trunk, 

That  hangs  upon  the  cliff's  rude  edge,  I  see 

An  old  man,  on  whose  forehead  winter's  snow 

Is  scattered,  and  his  hand  supports  his  brow. 

The  lance,  the  sword,  the  ample  shield  beneath 
Lie  at  his  feet  obscured  by  spreading  rust ; 
His  casque  is  circled  by  an  ivy  wreath — 
Those  arms  were  once  his  country's  pride  and  trust: 


IS  DERZHAVIxV. 

And  yet  upon  his  golden  breast-plate  plays 
The  gentle  brightness  of  the  sunset  rays. 

He  sits,  and  muses  on  the  rapid  stream, 

While  deep  thoughts  struggling  from  his  bosom  rise 

"  Emblem  of  man  !  here  brightly  pictured  seem 

The  world's  gay  scenery  and  its  pageantries  ; 

Which  as  delusive  as  thy  shining  wave, 

Glow  for  the  proud,  the  coward  and  the  slave. 

So  is  our  little  stream  of  life  poured  out, 

In  the  wild  turbulence  of  passion  :  so, 

Midst  glory's  glance  and  victory's  thunder-shout, 

The  joys  of  life  in  hurried  exile  go — 

Till  hope's  fair  smile,  and  beauty's  ray  of  light 

Are  shrouded  in  the  griefs  and  storms  of  night. 

Day  after  day  prepares  the  funeral  shroud ; 
The  world  is  gray  with  age  : — the  striking  hour 
Is  but  an  echo  of  death's  summons  loud — 
The  jarring  of  the  dark  grave's  prison  door  : 


DERZHAVIN.  19 

Into  its  deep  abyss — devouring  all — 

Kings  and  the  friends  of  kings  alike  must  fall. 

Aye  !  they  must  fall !  see  that  unconquer'd  one 
Midst  Rome's  high  senate — hark!    his  deeds  they 

tell: 
He  stretch'd  his  hand  to  seize  the  proffered  crown  ; 
His  mantle  veiled  his  countenance — he  fell. 
Where  are  the  schemes,  the  hopes  that  dazzled  him? 
Those  eyes,  aspiring  to  a  throne,  are  dim. 

Aye  !  they  must  fall !  another  hero  see, 

From  triumph's  golden  chariot  fortune  flings  : 

The  proudest  son  of  magnanimity, 

Who  scorned  the  purple  robe : — ev'n  he  whom  kings 

Looked  to  with  reverence  :  he  in  prison  dies, 

Heaven's  light  extinguished  in  his  vacant  eyes. 

Aye  !  they  must  fall !  as  I  have  fallen — I, 
Whom  late  with  flowery  wreaths  the  cities  crown'd; 
And  dazzling  phantoms  played  so  smilingly 
Midst  laurels,  olive-branches  waving  round  ; 


20  DERZHAVIN. 

'Tis  past — 'tis  past — for  in  the  battle  now 
My  hand  no  lightnings  at  the  foe  can  throw. 

My  strength  abandons  me ;  the  tempest's  roar 

Hath  in  its  fury  borne  my  lance  away  : 

My  spirit  rises  proudly  as  before, 

But  triumph  hides  her  false  and  treacherous  ray." 

He  spake — he  slumbered,  wearied  and  opprest ; 

And  Morpheus  o'er  him  waved  his  wings  of  rest. 

A  wintry  darkness  visited  the  world, 
Borne  on  the  raven-pinions  of  the  night ; 
Nothing  is  heard  but  thy  loud  torrents  ;  hurled 
Down  in   their  fierceness  from   the    o'erhanging 

height 
They  dash  in  fury  'gainst  the  echoing  rock. 
Even  with  an  Alpine  avalanche's  shock. 

The  desert  is  as  gloomy  as  the  grave  ; 
The  mountains  seem  all  wrapt  in  solemn  sleep; 
The  clouds  are  rolling  by,  like  wave  on  wave, 
In  silent  majesty  across  heaven's  deep. 


DERZHAVIN.  21 

But  see,  the  pale-faced  melancholy  moon 
Looks  tremblingly  from  her  exalted  throne  : 

She  look'd  out  tremblingly,  and  soon  withdrew 
Her  terror-stricken  horns  :  the  old  man  lay 
Sleeping  in  sweet  tranquillity  :    she  knew 
Her  mighty  foe — she  knew,  and  slunk  away  : 
She  dared  not  look  on  that  old  man,  for  he 
Was  the  world's  glory  and  her  enemy.* 


He  slumber'd  ;  glorious  were  his  hero-dreams  ! 
And  wondrous  visions  floated  round  his  eye  : 

*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  explain,  that  Romanzov  is  thf 
old  hero  whom  the  poet  means  to  depicture,  and  that  thes». 
stanzas  refer  to  his  victories  over  the  Turks. 

I  have  no  sympathies  with  the  poet  in  the  admiration  he 
expresses  of  the  warlike  character.  I  can  see  but  few  dis- 
tinctions between  the  conqueror  and  the  executioner;  and 
they  are  in  favour  of  the  latter,  whose  victims  are  at  all  events 
doomed  to  death  bythe  forms  and  with  the  solemnitiesof  justice. 
I  should  as  soon  think  of  celebrating  the  carousals  of  a  horde 
of  cannibals,  as  of  giving  the  attractions  and  decorations  of 
«ong  to  those  dreadful  scenes  of  sin  and  misery,  which  men  call 
victories :    and  I  blush  for  my  country  and  for  my  race  when 


22  DERZHAVIN. 

While  near,  the  sleeping  bolt  of  thunder  seems 
To  wait  from  him  its  awful  destiny. 
Ten  thousand  warriors  armed  around  him  stand, 
And  silently  attend  his  high  command. 

His  finger  points  !  the  loud  artillery's  fire 
Follows  !  a  sudden  trembling  shakes  the  ground  j 
Army  on  army,  in  their  proud  attire, 
Cover  the  vales,  the  hills,  the  plains  around  ; 
They  rise  like  mountains  o'er  the  distant  sea, 
When  from  the  sunny  ray  the  vapours  flee. 

His  footsteps  now  imprint  the  dewy  grass  : 
There  early  morning  opens  on  his  view, 
Amidst  the  dust,  th'  innumerable  mass 
Of  enemies  :  he  looks  their  squadrons  through, 
And  reads  the  secrets  of  their  vast  array, 
Even  as  an  eagle  soaring  o'er  his  prey. 

I  reflect,  that  in  the  very  proportion  of  the  wickedness  im- 
plied, and  the  wretchedness  produced,  are  they  made  the  sub- 
jects of  pride  and  congratulation,  and  honoured  with  the 
designations  "  great"  and  "  glorious!"  Man  was  surely  born 
to  nobler  and  better  things  than  these. 


DERZHAVIN.  23 

Then,  like  an  unseen  Magus  in  his  cell, 
He  calls  his  spirits  round  him  :  these  he  leads 
Over  the  mountains;  those  commands  to  dwell 
Amidst  the  woods ;  and  these  he  scattering  spreads 
Along  the  vales :  to  weakness  gives  the  frown 
Of  strength,  and  hurls  his  dreadful  thunder  down. 

The  eagle's  daring,  and  the  crescent's  pride, 

There,  by  the  ebony  and  the  amber  sea,* 

He  humbles  ;  and,  by  the  evening's  golden  side.f 

Subdues  the  golden  fleece  and  Kolkhidi. 

A  thousand  trophies  of  victorious  war 

Redeem  the  losses  of  the  snowy  tzar  :| 

Like  the  vermillion  ray  on  morning's  wings, 
His  triumphs  on  admiring  nations  beam  : 
Emperors  and  empires,  heroes,  kingdoms,  kings, 
"Unite  to  praise,  unite  to  honour  him, 

*  "  The  ebony  and  amber  sea" — the  Euxine  and  the  Caspian. 
t  "  Evening's  side" — the  west. 

t  The  white  czar  (beeloi  Tzar,)  a  common  appellation  of 
the  Russian  emperor. 


24  DERZHAVIN. 

And  raise  above  his  glory-circled  head 
A  laurelled,  time-enduring  pyramid. 

His  name,  his  deeds  through  hurrying  years  appear 
Bright  as  the  sun-bearns  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
Dazzling  the  world  with  splendor  :  waving  there 
Garlands  of  radiance-giving  laurels  glow ; 
Their  rays  shall  animate  the  future  fight, 
And  fill  the  brave  one's  breast  with  hope  and  light. 

Envy,  disarmed  before  his  piercing  glance, 
Bends  down  her  head  to  earth,  and  hurries  by ; 
Crawls  trembling  to  her  vile  retreat  askance — 
She  cannot  bear  the  lightnings  of  his  eye. 
Go,  envy,  to  thy  dark  and  deep  abyss  ! 
What  deeds,  what  fame  can  be  compared  to  his  ? 

He  slumbers  midst  these  images  :   but  now 
He  hears  the  howling  dogs — the  trembling  trees  ; 
The  vulture's  cries,  the  screech-owl's  voice  of  woe. 
And  the  fierce  raging  of  the  turbulent  breeze  ; 


DERZHAT1N.  25 

The  wild  beasts'  roaring  from  their  distant  lair, 
And  shadowy  spirits  till  the  troubled  air. 

The  oaks  are  shivered  by  the  maddened  storm ; 

Annies  of  ravens  flap  their  funeral  wings  ; 

The  stony  mountain  shakes  its  giant  form, 

And  bursts  with  terrible  re-echoings. 

From  rock  to  rock  'tis  vibrated  around, 

And  thunders  thunder  back  the  thundering  sound.* 

A  winged  woman,  clad  in  sable  weeds, 

Her  long  hair  scattered  by  the  winds,  was  there, 

Like    one    with    dreadful,   death-like     news    that 

speeds : 
She  waved  a  scythe-like  weapon  in  the  air, 
And  held  a  golden  trump;  she  called  "Arise," 
And  her  loud  voice  was  echoed  through  the  skies. 


*  Original : 

Grokhochet  ekho  po  goram 
Kak  grom  gremjeshchij  po  groraam 
3 


26  DERZHAVIN. 

See  on  her  casque  the  frowning  eagle  rest, 
Holding  the  dreadful  thunderbolt :  he  bears 
His  country's  shield  upon  his  noble  breast. 
The  old  man  waked  ;  he  shed  a  shower  of  tears  ; 
He  sighed,  and  bent  his  venerable  head, 
Uttering — "  Some  hero  surely  must  be  dead. 

Happy  if  always  combating  for  right 

When  combating  with  glory  :  happy  he 

Whose  sword  knew  mercy  in  the  bloodiest  fight. 

His  shield  an  Mgis  for  an  enemy. 

Centuries  to  come  shall  celebrate  his  fame, 

And  '  Friend  of  Man'  shall  be  his  noblest  name. 

Dear  let  his  memory  be,  and  proud  his  grave  ! 
And  this  his  epitaph  : — '  He  lived,  he  fought 
For  truth  and  wisdom  :  foremost  of  the  brave, 
Him  glory's  idle  glances  dazzled  not; 
'Tvvas  his  ambition,  generous  and  great, 
A  life  to  life's  great  end  to  consecrate  !' 

O  glory  !   glory  !  mighty  one  on  earth  ! 
How  justly  imaged  in  this  waterfall ! 


DERZHAVIN.  27 

So  wild  and  furious  in  thy  sparkling  birth, 
Dashing  thy  torrents  down,  and  dazzling  all ; 
Sublimely  breaking  from  thy  glorious  height, 
Majestic,  thundering,  beautiful  and  bright. 

How  many  a  wondering  eye  is  turned  to  thee, 
In  admiration  lost ; — short-sighted  men  ! 
Thy  furious  wave  gives  no  fertility ; 
Thy  waters,  hurrying  fiercely  through  the  plain, 
Bring  nought  but  devastation  and  distress, 
And  leave  the  flowery  vale  a  wilderness. 

O  fairer,  lovelier  is  the  modest  rill, 

Watering  with  steps  serene  the  field,  the  grove — 

Its  gentle  voice  as  sweet  and  soft  and  still, 

As  shepherd's  pipe,  or  song  of  youthful  love. 

It  has  no  thundering  torrent,  but  it  flows 

Unwearied,  scattering  blessings  at  it  goes. 

To  the  wild  mountain  let  the  wanderer  come, 
And  resting  on  the  turf,  look  round  and  see, 
With  saddened  eye,  the  green  and  grassy  tomb, 
And  hear  its  monitory  language  :  he — 


28  DERZHAVIN. 

He  sleeps  below,  not  famed  in  war  alone  ; 
The  great,  the  good,  the  generous  minded  one. 

O  be  immortal,  warlike  hero  !  Thou 

Hast  done  thy  duty — all  thy  duty  here." 

So  said  the  old  man,  crowned  with  locks  of  snow  : 

He    looked    to    heaven,  then    stood    in    silence 

there, — 
In  silence,  but  the  echoes  caught  the  sound, 
And  filled  the  listening  scenery  around. 

Who  glances  there  along  the  mountain's  side, 
Just  like  the  moon  upon  the  darkest  wave  ? 
What  shadow  flits  across  the  midnight  tide, 
Gleaming  as  if  from  heaven  ?     The  pitchy  grave 
Is  brighter  than  that  gloomy  brow,  'tis  clad 
In  deep  and  desolate  abstraction  sad  ! 

What  wondrous  spirit  from  the  north  descends? 
The  winds  are  swift,  but  cannot  follow  him  : 
Nation  on  nation  struck  with  terror  bends  ; 
His  voice  is  thunder  :  stnrry  glories  gleam 


DERZHAVIX.  29 

Around  him,  and  his  hurrying  footsteps  bright 
Scatter  a  thousand  thousand  rays  of  light. 

His  body,  like  a  dark  and  gloomy  shade, 

On  midnight's  melancholy  bosom  lies  : 

A  coarse  and  heavy  garment  round  him  laid, 

And  thickening  films  are  gathering  round  his  eyes  : 

His  icy  fingers  press  his  bosom  chill, 

His  lips  are  opened  wide,  but  all  is  still. 

His  bed,  the  earth  :  his  roof,  the  azure  sky  : 

His  palace,  yonder  desert  stretching  wide. 

Art  thou  the  son  of  fame  and  luxury  ? 

The  prince  of  Tavrid  ?     From  thy  height  of  pride 

Fallen  so  low  and  lonely  ?     And  is  this 

But  one  dark  step  from  glory  and  from  bliss  ? 

Wert  thou  the  favourite  of  the  northern  throne, 
Minerva's*  favourite  ?     Wert  thou  he  that  trod 


*  Catherine. — This  was  one  of  her  favourite  titles  ;  and  in 
the  character  and  dress  of  Minerva  she  is  often  represented 
en  her  medals. 

3* 


30  DERZHAVIK. 

The  Muse's  temple — ihou  Apollo's  son, 
The  pride  of  Mars — thou,  on  whose  mighty  nod 
Both  peace  and  war  stood  waiting  ;  nobly  great, 
Not  clad  in  purple,  but  a  potentate  ? 

What !  art  thou  he  that  cradled  and  uprear'd 
The  Russian's  prowess — Catherine's  energy  ? 
Sustain'd  by  her,  thy  thunderbolt  was  heard 
Rolling  through  distant  lands  its  majesty  ; 
And  to  the  everlasting  heights  was  hurl'd, 
Whence  Rome  sent  forth    her  mandates   to   the 
world. 

Art  thou  not  he  who  bade  the  robber  yield, 
Scatter'd  the  pirate  herds  the  desert  o'er, 
And  bade  the  city  flourish,  and  the  field 
Where  all  was  waste  and  barrenness  before ; 
Sprinkled  with  ships  the  Euxine — while  the  shore 
Even  of  the  tropics  heard  thy  cannons'  roar  ? 

Wert  thou  the  great,  the  glorious  one,  who  knew 
With  martial  fire  the  hero  Russ  to  fill ; 


DERZHAVIN.  31 

Taught  him  the  very  elements  to  subdue, 

In  burning  Otchakov  and  Ismahil : 

With  eagle-daring,  eagle-strength  inspired ; 

While  valour  looked,  and  wondered,  and  admired  ? 


'Tis  he,  the  hardiest  of  mortals  ;  he, 
Sublimely  soaring,  takes  his  flight  alone, 
Creator  of  his  own  proud  destiny  : 
No  footstep  near  him — that  bright  path  his  own. 
Thy  fame,  Potemkin,  shall  in  glory  glow, 
While  everlasting  ages  lingering  flow. 

Beauty  and  art  and  knowledge  raised  to  him 
Triumphal  arches  :  smiling  fortune  wove 
Myrtle  and  laurel  wreaths,  and  victory's  beam 
Lighted  them  up  with  brightness  :  joy  and  love 
Played    round    thy   flow'ry  footsteps  :    pleasure, 

pride 
Walk'd  in  majestic  glory  at  thy  side. 

'Tis  he,  'tis  he  to  whom  the  poet  brought 
His  offerings  lighted  with  the  Muse's  fire  : 


32  DERZHAVIN. 

Thundering  with  Pindar's  majesty  of  thought, 
And  breathing  all  the  sweetness  of  the  lyre, 
I  sang  the  victories  of  Ismahil ; 
But  thou  wert  gone — the  poet's  lyre  was  still. 

Alas  !  'twas  then  a  vain  and  voiceless  shell : 
Or,  if  it  spoke,  its  tone  was  but  despair ; 
From  my  weak  hands  it  fell,  in  dust  it  fell, 
My  eye  was  dimmed  by  the  fast-falling  tear  : 
I  stood  the  stars  of  paradise  beneath,* 
But  all  was  darkness,  desolation,  death ! 

'Tis  still,  where  all  was  eloquent  with  thee  : 
The  thunders  of  thy  fame  have  rolled  away, 
Thy  orphan'd  armies  wail  their  misery, 
The  ear  is  wearied  with  their  plaintive  lay. 
'Twas  brightness  all,  with  joy  and  beauty  bright, 
But  now  'tis  night,  'tis  desolation's  night; 


*  The  roofs  of  many  of  the  apartments  of  the  Tavrid  palace 
were  decorated  with  golden  stars. 


DERZHAVIN.  33 

Thy  laurel  crown  is  faded  in  its  pride  ; 

Thy  sparkling  Bulava*  is  broken  now, 

Thy  half-sheathed  sword  hangs  useless  at  thy  side, 

And  Catherine   mourns  her  woe,  her  more  than 

woe  : 
He  fell ;  his  mighty  unexpected  fall 
Shook,  like  an  earthquake,  the  terrestrial  ball. 

Peace  brought  her  fresh  green   laurel    branches, 

saw 
His  fall,  and  from  her  hands  the  garland  fell. 
She  heard  the  voice  of  wretchedness  and  woe  ; 
The  Muses  joined  to  sing  a  funeral  knell 
Around  the  tomb  of  Pericles  : — the  strain 
OfMaro  wept  Maecenas'  fate  again. f 

His  was  a  kingdom  full  of  light :  a  throne 
Of  more  than  regal  glory  was  his  seat : 
A  rosy-silver  steed  convey'd  him  on — 
A  splendour-glancing  phaeton  at  his  feet : 


*  Bulava — the  Hetman's  staff. 

t  This  is   somewhat  of  an  anachronism,  as  the  poet  died 
before  his  patron. 


34  DERZHAVIN. 

Proudest  of  all  the  proud  equestrians  he — 
He  fell : — in  death's  dull,  dark  obscurity. 


O  !  what  is  human  gloiy,  human  pride  ? 

What  are   man's   triumphs   when    they  brightest 

seem  ? 
What  art  thou,  mighty  one  !  though  deified  ? 
Methusalem's  long  pilgrimage,  a  dream  ; 
Our  age  is  but  a  shade,  our  life  a  tale, 
A  vacant  fancy,  or  a  passing  gale, 

Or  nothing  !  'Tis  a  heavy  hollow  ball, 

Suspended  on  a  slender  subtle  hair, 

And  filled  with  storm-winds,  thunders,  passions,  all 

Struggling  within  in  furious  tumult  there. 

Strange  mystery  !  man's  gentlest  breath  can  shake 

it, 
And  the  light  zephyrs  are  enough  to  break  it. 

But  a  few  hours,  or  moments,  and  beneath 
Empires  are  buried  in  a  night  of  gloom  : 
The  very  elements  are  leagued  with  death, 
A  breath  sends  giants  to  their  lonely  tomb. 


DERZHAVIN.  35 

Where  is  the  mighty  one  ?     He  is  not  found. 
His  dust  lies  trampled  in  the  noiseless  ground ! 

The  dust  of  heroes  ?     No  !  their  glories  rise 
Triumphant  upwards,  spreading  living  light 
And  pure  imperishable  memories 
Through  ages  of  forgetfulness  and  night : 
Flowers  shining  on  time's  wintry  mountain  side ; 
Potemkin  could  not  die — he  has  not  died  ! 

His  theatre  was  Evksin's  distant  shore, 

His  temple,  thankful  hearts  :  the  glorious  hand 

That  crowns  him,  Catherine's  :  glancing,  dazzling 

o'er 
Was  fame's  all-eloquent  triumphant  band. 
Life  was  a  list  of  triumphs,  and  his  head 
Beneath  a  tomb-stone,  reared  by  love,  was  laid. 

When  the  red  morn  breaks  trembling  o'er  the  dew, 
And  through  the   woods   the  wild  winds  whistle 

shrill ; 
When  the  dark  Danube  wears  a  bloody  hue — 
Then  is  the  name  oft  heard  of  Ismahil, 


36  DERZHAVIN. 

And  oft  a  gloomy  voice  is  echoed  then, 
Through  twilight,  "  Say  what  means  the  Saracen^' 

He  trembles,  and  his  eye  is  dimmed  with  fear, 
The  arms  he  dreads  are  sparkling  in  the  sun ; 
And  forty  thousand  Moslems  dying  there, 
Are  the  proud  trophies  of  the  northern  one. 
Their  shades  (like  frighted  spectres)  glide  before, 
And  the  Russ  stands  in  streams  of  human  gore  j 

He  trembles,  and  looks  upwards,  but  the  skies 
Are  covered  with  portentous  omens  dire  ; 
Dark  visions  from  the  sea  of  Tavrid  rise, 
And  the  land  shakes  with  heaven's  excited  ire  : 
Again  Otchakov's  bloody  torrent  flows 
Frightfully  on,  and  freezes  as  it  goes. 

As  through  the  fluid  brightness  of  the  sea, 
Beneath  the  welkin's  sunny  canopy, 
The  tenants  of  the  waves  glide  joyfully  ; 
So  o'er  the  Leman's  face  our  squadrons  fly, 


1XERZHAVIN.  37 

Their  swell'd  sails  bursting  with  the  winds,  they  tell 
How  proud  the  ambition  of  the  Russ  can  swell. 

Ours  is  unutterable  triumph  now, 

Theirs,  fears  and  apprehensions  :  on  the  tomb, 

That  shields  their  heroes,  thorns  and  mosses  grow; 

Laurels  and  roses  o'er  our  heroes  bloom. 

Our  glory-girded  mausoleums  stand 

O'er  conquerors  of  the  ocean  and  the  land. 

When  the  sun  sinks  at  evening's  calmest  close, 
Love  sorrowfully  sits  :  the  breeze  of  spring 
Across  the  melancholy  harp-strings  blows, 
And  spreads  around  its  deep  notes  sorrowing  : 
Sighs  from  his  bosom  burst,  and  tears  are  shed 
Upon  the  sleeping  hero's  sculptured  bed. 

And  ere  the  morning  gilds  the  distant  hill, 
And  o'er  the  golden  tomb  the  sunbeams  play; 
While  yet  the  wild  deer  sleeps;    and  night-winds 
shrill 

Wind  round  the  mountains  there  ;  the  old  man  gray 
.4 


38  DEKZHAVIN. 

Hangs  o'er  the  monument  in  secret  gloom, 
And  reads,  "  Potemkin's  consecrated  tomb !" 

Manes  of  Alcibiades  !  so  low, 
That  now  the  earth-worm  joys  in  their  decay  : 
There  lies  the  casque  that  bound  Achilles'  brow ; 
The  shepherd  finds  it — bears  that  casque  away 
On  his  base  forehead  !     Does  it  matter  ?     Nay  ! 
The  victor  sleeps — his  glory  ?  wrapt  in  clay  ! 

But  gratitude  still  lives  and  loves  to  cherish 
The  patriot's  virtues,  while  the  soul  of  song 
In  sacred  tones,  that  never,  never  perish, 
Fame's  everlasting  thunder  bears  along  j 
The  lyre  has  an  eternal  voice — of  all 
That's  holy,  holiest  is  the  good  man's  pall. 

List  then,  ye  worldly  waterfalls  !     Vain  men, 
Whose  brains  are  dizzy  with  ambition,  bright 
Your  swords — your  garments  flow'ry  like  a  plain 
In  the  spring  time — if  truth  be  your  delight 


DERZHAVIN.  39 

And  virtue  your  devotion,  let  your  sword 
Be  bared  alone  at  wisdom's  sacred  word. 

Roar,  roar,  thou  waterfall !  lift  up  thy  voice 
Even  to  the  clouded  regions  of  the  skies  : 
Thy  brightness  and  thy  beauty  may  rejoice, 
Thy  music  charms  the  ears,  thy  light  the  eyes, 
Joy-giving  torrent !  sweetest  memory 
Receives  a  freshness  and  a  strength  from  thee. 

Roll  on  !  no  clouds  shall  on  thy  waters  lie 
Darkling  :  no  gloomy  thunder-tempest  break 
Over  thy  face  :  let  the  black  night-dews  fly 
Thy  smiles,  and  sweetly  let  thy  murmurs  speak 
In  distance  and  in  nearness  :  be  it  thine 
To  bless  with  usefulness,  with  beauty  shine, 

Thou  parent  of  the  waterfall !  proud  river  ! 
Thou  northern  thunderer,  Suna  !  hurrying  on 
In  mighty  torrent  from  the  heights,  and  ever 
Sparkling  with  glory  in  the  gladdened  sun, 


40  DE11ZHAVJN. 

Now  dashing  from  the  mountain  to  the  plain? 
And  scattering  purple  fire  and  sapphire  raia. 

'Tis  momentary  vehemence  :  thy  course 
Is  calm  and  soft  and  silent,  clear  and  deep 
Thy  stately  waters  roll  :  in  the  proud  force. 
Of  unpretending  majesty,  they  sweep 
The  sideless  marge,  and  brightly,  tranquilly 
Bear  their  rich  tributes  to  the  grateful  sea. 

Thy  stream,  by  baser  waters  unalloyed, 
Washes  the  golden  banks  that  o'er  thee  smile ; 
Until  the  clear  Onega  drinks  its  tide, 
And  swells  while  welcoming  the  glorious  spoil : 
O  what  a  sweet  and  soul-composing  scene, 
Clear  as  the  cloudless  heavens,  and  as  serene? 


DERZHAVIN.  41 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COUNT  ORLOV. 

What  do  I  hear?    An  eagle  from  heaven's  cloudy 

sea, 
Midst  the  high  towering  hosts  that  swam 
Before  Minerva's  steps,  when  she 
To  earth  from  proud  Olympus  came  : 
That  eagle,  sailing  in  its  state, 
Heralding  Russia's  naval  might, 
Pierced  hy  the  fatal  spear  of  fate, 
Falls  rustling  from  the  glorious  height ! 

Alas !  alas !  whither  his  flight  through  heaven's  blue 

vault  ? 
Where  is  his  path  on  ocean's  deep  ? 
Where  is  his  fearful  thunderbolt  ? 
Where  do  his  forked  lightnings  sleep  ? 
Where  is  the  bosom  nought  could  fright, 
The  piercing,  penetrating  mind  ? 
'Tis  all,  'tis  all  enshrined  in  night ; 
He  left  us  but  his  fame  behind  ! 
4* 


DERZHAVIN. 


SONG. 


Golden  bee  !  for  ever  sighing, 
Round  and  round  my  Delia  flying, 
Ever  in  attendance  near  her  : 
Dost  thou  really  love  her,  fear  her, 

Dost  thou  love  her, 
Golden  bee  ? 

Erring  insect !  he  supposes, 
That  her  lips  are  morning  roses  : 
Breathing  sweets  from  Delia's  tressesr 
He  would  probe  their  fair  recesses. 
Purest  sugar 
Is  her  breast! 

Golden  bee!  for  ever  sighing, 
Ever  round  my  Delia  flying  ; 
Is  it  thou  so  softly  speaking  ? 
Thine  the  gentle  accents  breaking, 

"  Drink  I  dare  not,. 
Lest  I  die  !'r 


BATIUSHKOV* 


TO  MY  PENATES. 

Fatherland  Penates !  come, 
Kind  protectors  of  my  home  ! 
Not  in  gold  or  jewels  rich — 
Can  ye  love  your  simple  shrine  ? 
Smile,  then,  sweetly  from  your  niche 
On  this  lowly  hut  of  mine, 
Thus  removed  from  wordly  care, 
I,  a  wearied  wanderer, 
In  this  silent  corner  here, 
Offer  no  ambitious  prayer. 
Here,  if  ye  consent  to  dwell, 
Happiness  shall  court  my  cell. 
Kind  and  courteous  ever  prove, 
Beaming  on  me  light  and  love  ^ 


46  BATIUSHKOT. 

Not  with  streams  of  fragrant  wine, 
Not  with  incense  smoking  high, 
Does  the  poet  seek  your  shrine — 
His  is  mild  devotion's  sigh, 
Grateful  tears,  the  still  soft  fire 
Of  feeling  heart :  and  sweetest  strains, 
Inspired  by  the  Aonian  quire. 

0  Lares  !  in  my  dwelling  rest, 
Smile  on  the  poet  where  he  reigns. 
And  sure  the  poet  shall  be  blest. 
Come,  survey  my  dwelling  over ; 

1  '11  describe  it  if  I  'm  able  : 
In  the  window  stands  a  table, 

Three-legged,  tott'ring,  with  a  cover, 

Gay  some  centuries  ago, 

Ragged,  bare  and  faded  now. 
In  a  corner,  lost  to  fame, 
To  honour  lost,  the  blunted  sword 
(That  relic  of  my  fathers'  name) 
Harmless  hangs,  by  rust  devoured. 
Here  are  pillaged  authors  laid — 
There,  a  hard  and  creaking  bed : 


BATIUSHKOV.  47 

Broken,  crumbling,  argile-ware, 

Furniture  strewed  here  and  there. 

And  these  in  higher  love  I  hold 

Than  sofas  rich  with  silk  and  gold, 

Or  china  vases  gay  and  fair. 

Kind  Penates  !  thus  I  pray — 

O  may  wealth  and  vanity 

Never  hither  find  their  way, 

Never  here  admitted  he  ! 

Let  the  vile,  the  slavish  soul, 

Let  the  sons  of  pomp  and  pride. 
Fortune's  spoilt  ones,  turn  aside  ; 

Not  on  them  nor  theirs  I  call  ! 

Tottering  beggar !  hither  come, 
Thou  art  bidden  to  my  home  ; 
Throw  thy  useless  crutch  away  ; 
Come — be  welcome  and  be  gay  ! 
Warmth  and  rest  thy  limbs  require, 
Stretch  thee  by  my  cheerful  fire  : 
Reverend  teacher  !  old  and  hoary, 
Thou  whom  years  and  toils  have  taught, 
Who  with  many  a  storm  hast  fought, 


<8  BAT1USHKGV. 

Storms  of  time  and  storms  of  glory  ! 

Take  thy  merry  balalaika,* 

Sing  thy  struggles  o'er  again; 

In  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 

Where  thou  swung'st  the  rude  nagaika  ;f 

Midst  the  cannon's  thunder  roar, 

Midst  the  sabres  clashing  o'er ; 

Trumpets  sounding,  banners  flying 

O'er  the  dead  and  o'er  the  dying, 

While  thy  never-wearied  blade 

Foes  on  foes  in  darkness  laid. 

And  thou,  Lisette  !  at  evening  steal. 

Through  the  shadow-cover'd  vale, 

To  this  soft  and  sweet  retreat ; 

Steal,  my  nymph,  on  silent  feet. 

Let  a  brother's  hat  disguise 

Thy  golden  locks,  thy  azure  eyes  ; 


*  The  balalaika  is  a  two-sided  musical  instrument,  of  which 
the  Russian  peasants  are  extremely  fond. 

fThe  nagaika  is  a  hard  thong,  used  by  the  Cossacks  to  flog 
tjieir  horses;  but  sometimes  employed  as  a  weapon  of  warlikt 
attack. 


BATIUSHKOV.  49 

O'er  thee  be  my  mantle  thrown, 
Bind  my  warlike  sabre  on  : 
When  the  treacherous  day  is  o'er, 
Knock,  fair  maiden,  at  my  door  ; 
Enter  then,  thou  soldier  sweet ! 
Throw  thy  mantle  at  my  feet ; 
Let  thy  curls,  so  brightly  glowing, 
On  thy  ivory  shoulders  flowing, 
Be  unbound  :  thy  lily  breast 
Heave,  no  more  with  robes  opprest ! 
"  Thou  enchantress  !   is  it  so  ? 
Sweetest,  softest  shepherdess ! 
Art  thou  really  come  to  bless 
With  thy  smiles  my  cottage  now  ?" 
O  her  snowy  hands  are  pressing 
Warmly,  wildly  pressing  mine  ! 
Mine  her  rosy  lips  are  blessing, 
Sweet  as  incense  from  the  shrine, 
Sweet  as  zephyr's  breath  divine 
Gently  murmuring  through  the  bough  ; 
Even  so  she  whispers  now : 
"  O  my  heart's  friend,  I  am  thine ; 
5 


5Q  BATIUSHKOV. 

Mine,  beloved  one  !  art  thou." 
What  a  privileged  being  he, 
Who  in  life's  obscurity, 
Underneath  a  roof  of  thatch, 
Till  the  morning  dawns  above, 
Sweetly  sleeps,  while  angels  watch, 
In  the  arms  of  holy  love  ! 

But  the  stars  are  now  retreating 
From  the  brightening  eye  of  day, 
And  the  little  birds  are  greeting, 
Round  their  nests,  the  dewy  ray. 
Hark !  the  very  heaven  is  ringing 
With  the  matin  song  of  peace  : 
Hark  !  a  thousand  warblers  singing 
Waft  their  music  on  the  breeze  : 
All  to  life,  to  love  are  waking, 
From  their  wings  their  slumbers  shaking ; 
But  my  Lila  still  is  sleeping 
In  her  fair  and  flowery  nest ; 
And  the  zephyr,  round  her  creeping, 
Fondly  fans  her  breathing  breast ; 
O'er  her  cheeks  of  roses  straying, 


BATIUSHKOV.  51 

With  her  golden  ringlets  playing  : 
From  her  lips  I  steal  a  kiss  ; 
Drink  her  breath  :    but  roses  fairest, 
Richest  nectar,  rapture  dearest, 
Sweetest,  brightest  rays  of  bliss, 
Never  were  as  sweet  as  this. 
Sleep,  thou  loved  one  !  sweetly  sleep  ! 
Angels  here  their  vigils  keep  ! 
Blest,  in  innocence  arrayed, 
I  from  fortune's  favours  flee  ; 
Shrouded  in  the  forest-shade, 
More  than  blest  by  love  and  thee. 
Calm  and  peaceful  time  rolls  by  : 
O  !  has  gold  a  ray  so  bright 
As  thy  seraph-smile  of  light 
Throws  o'er  happy  poverty  ? 

Thou  good  genius  !  in  thy  view 
Wealth  is  vile  and  worthless  too  : 
Riches  never  brought  thee  down 
From  thy  splendour-girded  throne  ; 
But  beneath  the  shadowy  tree 
Thou  hast  deigned  to  smile  on  me. 


52  BATIUSHKOV. 

Fancy,  daughter  of  the  skies, 
Thoughts,  on  wings  of  light  that  rise. 
Waft  my  spirit  gay  and  free, 
When  the  storm  of  passion  slumbers, 
Far  above  humanity, 
To  the  Aonian  land  of  numbers, 
Where  the  choirs  of  music  stray  ; 
Rapture,  like  a  feather'd  arrow, 
Bursting  life's  dark  prison  narrow. 
Bears  me  to  the  heavens  away. 
Sovereigns  of  Parnassus  !  stay 
Till  the  morning's  rosy  ray 
Throws  its  brightness  o'er  your  hill. 
Stay  with  nature's  poet  still. 
O  reveal  the  shadowy  band, 
Minstrels  of  my  fatherland  ! 
Let  them  pass  the  Stygian  shore, 
From  the  ethereal  courts  descending  : 
Yonder  airy  spirits  o'er, 
O  !  I  hear  their  voices  blending  ; 
List !  the  heavenly  echoes  come 
Wafted  to  my  privileged  home  ; 


53 


BATIU5HK0V. 

Music  hovers  round  my  head, 
From  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Our  Parnassian  giant,*  proud, 
Tow'ring  o'er  the  rest  I  see  ; 
And,  like  storm  or  thunder  loud. 
Hear  his  voice  of  majesty. 
Sons  and  deeds  of  glory  singing 
A  majestic  swan  of  light ; 
Now  the  harp  of  angels  stringing, 
Now  he  sounds  the  trump  of  fight; 
Midst  the  muses',  graces'  throng, 
Sailing  through  the  heaven  along  ; 
Horace'  strength,  and  Pindar's  fire, 
Blended  in  his  mighty  lyre. 
Now  he  thunders,  swift  and  strong, 
Even  like  Suna  o'er  the  waste  :f 
Now,  like  Philomela's  song, 
Soft  and  spring-like,  sweet  and  chaste, 


"  Derzhavin. 

t  In  the  original  steppe ;   a  long,  mighty,  barren  desert 
such  as  the  Siberian  river  (Suna)  flows  over. 
5* 


54  BATIUSHKGV. 

Gently  breathing  o'er  the  wild, 
Heavenly  fancy's  best  loved  child  1 

Gladdening  and  enchanting  one  I* 
History's  gayest,  fairest  son  ! 
He  who  oft  with  Agathon 
Visits  evening's  fane  of  bliss  : 
Or  in  Plato's  master  tone, 
Near  the  illustrious  Parthenon, 
Calls  the  rays  of  wisdom  down 
With  a  voice  sublime  as  his. 
Now  amidst  the  darkness  walking, 
Where  old  Russia  had  her  birth  ; 
With  the  Vladimirij  talking, 
As  they  ruled  o'er  half  the  earth  ; 
Or  Sclavonian  heroes  hoary, 
Cradled  in  a  night  of  glory  ! 

Sweetest  of  the  sylphs  above,f 
And  the  graces'  darling,  see  ! 
O  how  musically  he 

*  Karamsin. 
+  BogdanoviclL 


BATIUSHKOV.  55 

Tunes  his  Citra's  melody, 
To  Dushenka*  and  to  love. 
Near,  Meletzy  smiling  stands, 
Mutual  thoughts  their  souls  employ  ; 
Heart  in  heart,  and  hands  in  hands, 
Lo  !  they  sing  a  song  of  joy  ; 
Next  engaged  with  love  in  play, 
Poets  and  philosophers, 
Close  to  Phaedrus  and  Pilpay,f 
Lo  !  Dmitriev  appears 


*  Dushenka,  (the  diminutive  of  Dusha — the  Soul,)  or  The 
Little  Psyche,  is  the  title  of  the  most  celebrated  poem  of  Bog- 
danovich. 

t  The  wise  man,  who  according  to  the  oriental  story  (cur- 
rent also  in  Russia)  received  Truth  when  she  had  been  inhos- 
pitably driven  from  place  to  place.  In  Russia  I  have  heard 
the  fable  thus  : — A  Vakir  in  his  ramble  trod  where  the  ground 
re-echoed  his  footsteps — "  It  must  be  hollow  here,"  thought 
he  ;  "I  will  dig,  and  I  shall  find  a  treasure."  He  dug,  and 
found  a  spring,  from  whence  a  beautiful  and  naked  female 
sprung  forth — "  Who  art  thou,  loveliest  daughter  of  heaven  ?" 
said  he.  "  My  name,"  she  replied,  "  is  Truth  ;  lend  me  thy 
mantle."  This  he  refused  to  do  ;  and  she  hastened  to  the  city, 
where  the  poets  found  fault  with  her  figure,  the  eourtiers  with 


56  BATIUSHKOV. 

Sporting  like  a  happy  child, 
Midst  the  forest's  tenants  wild, 


her  manners,  the  merchants  with  her  simplicity.  She  wan- 
dered about,  and  none  would  give  her  an  asylum,  till  she  fell  in 
with  a  poor  man,  the  court  news-writer,  who  thought  she 
tnight  be  a  veiy  useful  auxiliary:  but  she  blotted  out  whatever 
he  composed,  so  that  no  news  was  published  for  many  days ; 
and  the  sultan,  sending  for  his  newsman  to  inquire  the  cause  of 
his  silence,  was  told  the  history  of  his  guest,  who  was  in  con- 
sequence summoned  to  court.  Here,  however,  she  was  so 
troublesome,  turning  eveiy  thing  upside  down,  that  it  was  de-- 
termined  to  convey  her  away ;  and  the  sultan  ordered  her  to 
be  buried  alive  in  his  garden.  His  commands  were  obeyed 
by  his  courtiers ;  but  Truth,  who  always  springs  up  with  re- 
newed vigor  in  the  open  air,  rose  from  her  grave  ;  and,  after 
wandering  about  for  some  time,  found  the  door  of  the  public 
library  open,  went  in,  and  amused  herself  by  burning  all  the 
books  that  were  there,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three. 
Again  straying  forth  in  search  of  an  abode,  she  met  a  venera- 
ble man,  to  whom  she  told  her  story — and  this  was  Pilpay. 
He  received  her  to  his  house  with  a  cordial  welcome,  and  re- 
quested her  company  to  his  museum  of  stuffed  beasts,  birds, 
and  insects.  "  Thou  hast  no  discreetness,"  said  he  ;  "  in  the 
world  thou  art  constantly  getting  into  scrapes  :  now  take  the 
counsel  of  an  old  man,  make  this  cabinet  thy  abode ;  here 
thou  hast  a  large  choice  of  society,  and  here  dwell."     She 


BATIUSHKOV.  67 

Garlanded  with  smiling  wreaths  ; 
Truth  unveiled  beside  him  breathes. 
See  two  brothers  toying  there, 
Nature's  children — Phoebus'  priests  : 
KrllofF  leading  Kheninitzer ! 
Teaching  poets  !  ye  whose  song 
Charms  the  idle  moments  long, 
When  the  wearied  spirit  rests. 

Heavenly  choir  !  the  graces  twine 
O'er  you  garlands  all  divine  ; 
And  with  you  the  joys  I  drink, 
Sparkling  round  Pierian  brink, 
While  I  sing  in  raptured  glory, 
"  Ed  io  anche  son  pittore." 

Friendly  Lares  !  O  conceal 
From  man's  envious,  jealous  eye, 


found  the  advice  so  reasonable  that  she  adopted  it ;  since 
when  her  voice  is  only  heard  in  the  language  of  fable,  and 
her  chosen  interpreters  are  the  animal  creation. 

Pilpay's  Fables  were  translated  into  French  by  Galland, 
2  vols.  8vo.  1714.  There  are  also  several  English  transla- 
tions. 


58  BATIUSHKOV. 

Those  sweet  transports  which  I  feel, 
Those  blest  rays  of  heart-born  joy  ! 
Fortune  !  hence  thy  treasures  bear, 
And  thy  sparkling  vanities  : 
I  can  look  with  careless  eyes 
On  thy  flight — my  little  bark, 
Safely  led  through  tempests  dark, 
Finds  a  peaceful  haven  here — 
Ye  who  basked  in  Fortune's  ray 
From  my  thoughts  have  passed  away. 

But  ye  gayer,  wiser  ones, 
Glory's,  pleasure's  cheerful  sons ! 
Ye  who  with  the  graces  walk, 
Ye  who  with  the  muses  talk  ; 
Passing  life's  short  hours  away 
In  intellectual  children's  play  ; 
Careless,  joyous  sages  ! — you, 
Philosophers  and  idlers  too  ! 
Ye  who  hate  the  chains  of  slavery  ! 
Ye  who  love  the  songs  of  bravery  ! 
In  your  happiest  moments  come, 
Come,  and  crowd  the  muses'  home. 


BATIUSHKOV.  50 

Let  the  laugh  and  let  the  bowl 
Banish  sorrow  from  the  soul : 
Come,  Zhukovsky,  hither  hieing, 
Time  is  like  an  arrow  flying — 
Pleasure,  like  an  arrow  fleet : 
Here  let  friendship's  smile  of  gladness 
Brighten  every  cloud  of  sadness — 
Wreathe  with  cypress,  roses  sweet. 

Love  is  life  ; — thy  garlands  bring, 
Bobrov,  while  they  're  blossoming  : 
Bind  them  blooming  round  our  brow — 
Bacchus,  friends  !  is  with  us  now. 
Favourite  of  the  muses,  fill : 
Pledge  and  drink,  and  pledge  us  still! 
Aristippus'  grandson — thou  ! 
O  thou  lov'st  the  Aonian  lasses, 
And  the  harmonious  clang  of  glasses; 
But  when  evening's  silence  fills 
All  the  vales  and  all  the  hills, 
Thou  remote  from  worldly  folly, 
Tak'st  thy  walk  with  melancholy  ; 


60  BATIUSHKOV. 

And  with  that  unearthly  dame 
(Contemplation  is  her  name) 
Who  conveys  the  illumined  sense 
In  sublime  abstraction  hence — 
Up  to  those  high  and  bright  abodes 
Where  men  are  angels — angels,  gods. 

Give  me  now  thy  friendly  hand ; 
Leave  for  me  thy  spirit-land  ! 
Come,  companion  of  my  joy, 
WTe  will  all  time's  power  destroy 
On  our  chazha  solotoi* 
See  behind,  with  locks  so  gray, 
How  he  sweeps  life's  gems  away  j 
His  remorseless  scythe  is  mowing 
All  the  flowers  around  us  blowing. 
Be  it  ours  to  drive  before  us 
Bliss — though  fate  is  frowning  o'er  us  ! 
Time  may  hurry,  if  he  will ; 
We  will  hurry  swifter  still ; 

*  The  golden  cup. 


BATIUSHKOV.  tJl 

Drink  the  cup  of  ecstasy, 
Pluck  the  flow'rets  as  we  fly, 
Spite  of  time  and  destiny  : 
Many  a  star  and  many  a  flower 
Shine  and  bloom  in  life's  short  hour, 
And  their  rays  and  their  perfume 
For  ms  shall  shine — for  us  shall  bloom. 

Soon  shall  we  end  our  pilgrimage  ; 
And  at  the  close  of  life's  short  stage 
Sink  smiling  on  our  dusty  bed  : 
The  careless  wind  shall  o'er  us  sweep  ; 
Where  sleep  our  sires,  their  sons  shall  sleep 
With  evening's  darkness  round  our  head. 
There  let  no  hired  mourners  weep  ;* 
No  costly  incense  fan  the  sod  ; 
No  bell  pretend  to  mourn  ;  no  hymn 
Be  heard  midst  midnight's  shadows  dim- 
Can  they  delight  a  clay-cold  clod  ? 
No  !  if  love's  tribute  ye  will  pay, 
Assemble  in  the  moonlight  ray, 

"*  Plakalschitzii — women  hired  to  mourn  round  a  corpse 


62  BATIUSHKOV. 

And  throw  fresh  flow'rets  o'er  my  clay : 

Let  my  Penates  sleep  with  me — 

Here  bring  the  cup  I  loved — the  flute 

I  played — and  twine  its  form,  though  mute. 

With  branches  from  the  ivy-tree ! 

No  grave-stone  need  the  wanderer  tell, 

That  he  who  lived,  and  loved  so  well, 

Is  sleeping  in  serenity. 


I*©ffi®HWTOT, 


LOMONOSOV. 


EVENING  REFLECTIONS,  ON  THE  MAJESTY  OF 

GOD,    ON    SEEING    THE    GREAT 

NORTHERN  LIGHTS. 


Now  day  conceals  her  face,  and  darkness  fills 
The  field,  the  forest  with  the  shades  of  night ; 
The  gloomy  clouds  are  gathering  round  the  hills, 
Veiling  the  last  ray  of  the  lingering  light. 
The  abyss  of  heaven  appears — the  stars  are  kindling, 

round  ; 
Who,  who  can  count  those  stars,  who  that  abyss  cat* 

sound  ? 

6* 


OG  L0M0N0S0T. 

Just  as  a  sand  'whelmed  in  the  infinite  sea, 

A  ray  the  frozen  iceberg  sends  to  heaven ; 

A  feather  in  the  fierce  flame's  majesty : 

A  mote,  by  midnight's  maddened  whirlwind  driven. 

Am  I,  midst  this  parade  :  an  atom,  less  than  nought. 

Lost  and  o'erpower'd  by  the  gigantic  thought. 

And  we  are  told  by  wisdom's  knowing  ones, 
That  there  are  multitudes  of  worlds  like  this  ; 
That  yon  unnumber'd  lamps  are  glowing  suns, 
And  each  a  link  amidst  creation  is  ; — 
There  dwells  the  Godhead  too — there  shines  his 

wisdom's  essence — 
His  everlasting  strength — his  all-supporting  presence. 

Where  are  thy  secret  laws,  O  nature,  where  ? 
Thy  north-lights  dazzle  in  the  wintry  zone  : 
How  dost  thou  light  from  ice  thy  torches  there  ? 
There  has  thy  sun  some  sacred,  secret  throne  ? 
See  in  yon  frozen  seas  what  glories  have  their  birth; 
Thence  night  leads  forth  the  day  to  illuminate  the 
earth. 


LOMONOSOV.  67 

Come  then,  philosopher  !  whose  privileged  eye 
Reads  nature's  hidden  pages  and  decrees  : — 
Come  now,  and  tell  us  whence,  and  where,  and  why, 
Earth's  icy  regions  glow  with  lights  like  these, 
That  fill  our  souls  with  awe  : — profound  inquirer, 

say, 
For  thou  dost  count  the  stars  and  trace  the  planets' 

way  ! 

What  fills  with  dazzling  beams  the  illumined  air? 
What  wakes  the  flames  that  light  the  firmament  ? 
The  lightnings  flash  : — there  is  no  thunder  there — 
And  earth  and  heaven  with  fiery  sheets  are  blent: 
The  winter  night  now  gleams  with  brighter,  lovelier 

ray 
Than  ever  yet  adorn'd  the  golden  summer's  day. 

Is  there  some  vast,  some  hidden  magazine, 
Where  the  gross  darkness  flames  of  fire  supplies  ? 
Some    phosphorus    fabric,    which    the    mountains 

screen, 
Whose  clouds  of  light  above  those  mountains  rise? 


68  LOMONOSOV. 

Where  the  winds  rattle  loud  around  the  foaming 

sea, 
And  lift  the  waves  to  heaven  in  thundering  revelry? 

Thou  knowest  not !  'tis  doubt,  'tis  darkness  all ! 
Even  here  on  earth  our  thoughts  benighted  stray, 
And  all  is  mystery  through  this  worldly  ball — 
Who  then  can  reach  or  read  yon  milky  way  ? 
Creation's  heights  and  depths  are  all  unknown — 

untrod — 
Who  then  shall  say  how  vast,  how  great  creation's 

God? 


lomonosov.  69 


THE  LORD  AND  THE  JUDGE. 

The  God  of  gods  stood  up — stood  up  to  try 

The  assembled  gods  of  earth.  "How  long,"  he  said, 

"  How  long  will  ye  protect  impiety, 

And  let  the  vile  one  raise  his  daring  head  ? 

'Tis  yours  my  laws  to  justify — redress 
All  wrong,  however  high  the  wronger  be  ; 
Nor  leave  the  widow  and  the  fatherless 
To  the  cold  world's  uncertain  sympathy. 

'Tis  yours  to  guard  the  steps  of  innocence, 
To  shield  the  naked  head  of  misery  ; 
Be  'gainst  the  strong,  the  helpless  one's  defence, 
And  the  poor  prisoner  from  his  chains  to  free." 

They  hear  not — see  not — know  not — for  their  eye* 
Are  covered  with  thick  mists — they  will  not  see  : 


70  LOMONOSOT. 

The  sick  earth  groans  with  man's  iniquities., 
And  heaven  is  tired  with  man's  perversity. 


Gods  of  the  earth  !  ye  Kings  !  who  answer  not 
To  man  for  your  misdeeds,  and  vainly  think 
There's  none  to  judge  you  : — know,  like  ours,  your 

lot 
Is  pain  and  death  : — ye  stand  on  judgment's  brink. 

And  ye  like  fading  autumn-leaves  will  fall ; 
Your  throne  but  dust — your  empire  but  a  grave — 
Your  martial  pomp  a  black  funereal  pall — 
Your  palace  trampled  by  your  meanest  slave. 

God  of  the  righteous  !  O  our  God  !  arise, 
O  hear  the  prayer  thy  lowly  servants  bring : 
Judge,  punish,  scatter,  Lord  !  thy  enemies, 
And  be  alone  earth's  universal  king. 


MWBKW* 


ZHUKOVSKY. 


THE  MARINER, 

Rudderless  my  shattered  bark, 

Driven  by  wild  fatality, 

Hurries  through  the  tempest  dark, 

O'er  the  immeasurable  sea. 

Yet  one  star  the  clouds  shines  through  ; 

Little  star  !  shine  on,  I  pray  ; 

O  that  star  is  vanished  too — 

My  last  anchor  breaks  away. 

Gloomy  mists  the  horizon  bound, 
Furiously  the  waters  roar  ; 
Frightful  gulfs  are  yawning  round, 
Fearful  crags  along  the  shore. 


74  zHUKorsK*. 

Then  I  cried  in  wild  despair, 
"  Earth  and  heaven  abandon  me." 
Fool !  the  heavenly  pilot  there 
May  thy  silent  helmsman  be. 

Through  the  dark,  the  madden'd  waves, 
O'er  the  dangerous  craggy  bed  ; 
Midst  the  night-envelop'd  graves, 
Lo  !  I  was  in  safety  led 
By  the  unseen  guardian  hand  : 
Darkness  gone,  and  calm  the  air, 
And  I  stood  on  Eden's  land  ; 
Three  sweet  angels  hailed  me  there  ! 

Everlasting  fount  of  love  ! 

Noiv  will  I  confide  in  Thee  : 

Kneeling  midst  the  joys  above, 

Thy  resplendent  face  I  see  : 

Who  can  paint  Thee,  fair  and  bright, 

Thy  soul-gladdening  beauty  tell  ? 

Midst  heaven's  music  and  heaven's  light, 

Purity  ineffable  ! 


ZHUKOVSKY. 

O  unutterable  joy ! 
In  Thy  light  to  breathe,  to  be ; 
Strength  and  heart  and  soul  employ, 
O  my  God,  in  loving  Thee. 
Though  my  path  were  dark  and  drear. 
Holiest  visions  round  me  rise  ; 
Stars  of  hope  are  smiling  there, 
Smiling  down  from  Paradise. 


75 


7G  ZHUXOVSKY. 


^OLUS'  HARP  * 

In  yon  mansion  of  ages 
Lives  Morven's  famed  chieftain,  the  valiant  Ordalj 

Where  the  wild  billow  rages, 
And  scatters  its  foam  on  the  time-hallowed  wallj 


*It  will  immediately  occur  to  the  readers  of  Ossian,  that 
the  personages,  sentiments,  and  scenery  of  this  poem  are  de- 
rived from  him.  The  question  of  the  genuineness  of  the  great 
mass  of  what  is  called  the  Ossianic  poetry,  is,  I  imagine, 
finally  set  at  rest.  But  the  conviction  of  their  high  antiquity 
(notwithstanding  what  Adelung  has  written)  is  very  general 
in  the  north  of  Europe,  and  I  have  often  heard  that  convic- 
tion expressed  by  those  who  have  gone  very  profoundly 
into  the  history  of  Runic  and  Gothic  poetry.  Whatever  be 
their  date,  the  inquiry  as  to  their  literary  merit  is  very  dis- 
tinct from  it.  With  the  exception  of  Gray's  Elegy,  (of  which 
I  have  seen  a  collection  of  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
versions,)  there  is  nothing,  probably,  in  our  language,  which 
has  been  more  frequently  translated.  I  shall  be  excused,  I 
hope,  for  introducing,  at  the  close  of  this  volume,  a  rendering 
of  Helmers'  Dood  van  Ossian  from  the  Dutch— a  tongue  treated 


ZHUfcOVSKY.  ?« 

Like  a  mountain  in  glory. 
It  towers  o'er  the  wave, 
And  its  oaks,  old  and  hoary, 
Come  down  to  the  shores  which  the  white  waters 
lave.* 

The  stag-hound,  the  beagle, 
With  cries  oft  re-echoed,  the  wide  forest  fill ; 

To  the  throne  of  the  eagle 
They  chase  the  wild  boar  and  the  goat  up  the  hill; 

And  the  stag  from  the  heather  : — 

The  valleys  resound  j 

Horns,  voices  together, 
Are  mingled  in  rapid  vibrations  around. 


with  very  undeserved  depreciation,  though  it  possesses  poetical 
beauties  in  the  works  of  Vondel,  Hooft,  Tollens,  Helmers,  and 
others,  of  which  specimens  maybe  found  in  the  collections  of 
Siegenbeek  and  the  Bataavsche  Maatschappij,  which  I  should 
rejoice  to  see  transferred  to  our  own. 

*  High  walls  rise  on  the  banks  of  the  Duvranna,  and  see 
their  mossy  towers  in  the  stream  ;  a  rock  ascends  behind  them 
with  its  bending  pines.  Thou  may'st  behold  it  far  distant.— 
Oithona. 

7* 


79 


ZKUKOTSKT. 


All,  all  are  invited — 
And  joy  is  let  loose  at  the  board  of  Ordal  -y 

The  guests  are  united 
Where  wide-spreading  antlers  adorn  the  rude  hall;* 

Of  ages  departed 

The  glories  are  told  : 

And  memory,  full-hearted, 
Sends  hack  all  its  thoughts  to  the  great  ones- of  old.f 

Their  helmets  in  order, 
Their  bucklers,  and  harness,  and  hauberks  are  hung 

On  the  roof's  antique  border  \\ 
And  there,  while  the  deeds  and  the  victories  are 


*  Many  a  king  of  heroes,  and  hero  of  iron  shields,  and  youth 
of  heavy  looks  came  to  Runnars  echoing  hall — they  came  to 
woo  the  maid. — Cath-Loda. 

fNow  I  behold  the  chiefs  in  the  pride  of  their  former  deeds! 
their  souls  are  kindled  at  the  battles  of  old  ;  at  the  actions  of 
other  times  ;  their  eyes  are  flames  of  fire. — Fingal. 

X  When  a  warrior  was  so  far  advanced  in  years  as  to  be  unfit 
for  the  field,  it  was  the  custom  to  hang  up  his  arms  in  the  great 
hall,  where  the  tribe  feasted  on  joyful  or  remarkable  occasions. 


ZHUK0VSKY.  79 

Of  the  heroes  of  story, 
Ordal  proudly  stands  j 
And  a  flash  of  their  glory 
Seems  to  break   from  the  cup  which  he  waves  in 
his  hands.* 

He  looks  to  the  armour; 
'Tis  all  that  destruction  hath  left  of  their  name  ; — 

His  bosom  beats  warmer, 
His  spirit  is  roused  with  the  touch  of  their  fame  : 

Though  the  helmets  before  them 

Are  broken  and  dim, 

He  remembers  who  wore  them — ■ 
And,  O,  they  are  splendid  and  sacred  to  him.f 


*Is  the  remembrance  of  battles  pleasant  to  the  soul  ?  Do 
we  not  remember  with  joy  the  place  where  our  fathers  feasted? 
—  Temora. 

t  Not  unmarked  by  Sul-malla  is  the  shield  of  Morven's- 
king.  It  hangs  high  in  my  father's  hall  in  memory  of  the 
past. — Sul-Malla. 


80  ZHUKOVSKY. 

Milvana  the  bright  one* 
The  hall  of  her  father  resplendently  fills  ; 

As,  with  garments  of  light  on,f 
A  morning  of  summer  walks  up  the  fresh  hills  ; 

As  from  nature's  recesses 

A  free  golden  stream, 

So  her  fine  flowing  tresses 
O'er  her  soft-heaving  bosom  in  luxury  gleam  .J 


Far  fairer  than  morning,^ 
She  scatters  around  the  soft  lustre  of  soul  ; 

Dark  glances  adorning 
The  flashes  of  fire  from  her  eye-balls  that  roll ; 

*Her  eyes  were  two  stars  of  light.  Her  face  was  heaven's 
bow  in  showers.  Her  dark  hair  flowed  around  it  like  the 
streaming  clouds. — Cath-Loda. 

Her  soul  was  like  a  stream  of  light. — Colna-Dona. 

i  She  was  a  light  on  the  mountain. —  Temora. 

X  Her  breast  rose  slowly  to  sight,  like  the  ocean's  heaving 
wave. —  Colna-Dona. 

§  Her  face  was  like  the  light  of  the  morning. — Dar-Thula. 


ZHUKOVSKT.  81 

Like  the  song  of  the  fountain 
Her  mild  accents  fall ; 
Like  the  rose  of  the  mountain 
Her  breath  ; — but  her  spirit  is  sweeter  than  alL* 

Her  beauty's  gay  splendor 
Has  beamed   in  its  brightness  through  far-distant 
lands  : 

What  heroes  attend  her — 
The  castle  of  Morven  is  filled  with  their  bands ! 

Its  chieftain  delighted 

Weaves  visions  of  pride  ; 

But  his  daughter  has  plighted 
Her  hand  to  a  bard  to  no  glory  allied. 

Young,  lovely,  and  lonely 
As  the  rose  in  its  freshness,  he  tuned  his  soft  lays' 

In  the  deep  valley  only  : 
To  him  all  unheard  was  the  music  of  praise. 

*  She  appeared  lovely  as  the  mountain  flower,  when  the 
ruddy  beams  of  the  rising  sun  gleam  on  its  dew-eovered  sides. 
— Prel.  Discourse  to  Ossian. 


* 


32  ZHUKOVSKT. 

Milvana  descended 
From  luxury's  throne  : 
Affection  had  blended 
Her  heart  with  a  heart  as  unstained  as  her  own. 

In  the  black  arch  of  heaven, 
Like  the  shield  of  a  warrior,  the  pale  moon  is  hung; 

Through  the  gloomy  clouds  driven, 
Its  light-streams  o'er  ocean's  wide  surface  are  flung; 

The  dark  shadows  spreading, 

From  castle  and  grove, 

Their  giant  forms  shedding 
Sublimely  the  waves  and  the  waters  above, 


Where  the  mountain-cocks  rally, 
Where  the  waterfall  bursts  from  the  storm-covered 
rock 


*  O  thou  that  travellest  above,  round  as  the  full-orbed  hard 
shield  of  the  mighty. — Prel.  Discourse  to  Ossian. 

His  shield  is  terrible,  like  the  bloody  moon  ascending 
through  a  storm. — Temora. 


ZHUKOVSKY.  $3 

Ere  it  rush  to  the  valley  ;* 
The  oak  was  her  witness,  her  shelter  the  oak : 

Milvana  retreating 

To  solitude  there, 

Her  minstrel  awaiting  : — 
She  breathed  not — her  breath  was  suspended  by 
fear. 

With  harp  sweetly  sounding, 
He  comes  to  the  oak-tree — blest  moments  of  love  { 

With  peace  all  surrounding, 
And  the  moon  gently  glimmering  and  smiling  above. 

What  a  temple  for  loving 

For  bosoms  so  bland  ! 

And  the  waves,  softly  moving, 
Convey  their  low  music  along  the  smooth  strand. 

*  Lead  me,  O  Malvina  !  to  the  sound  of  my  woods — to  the 
roar  of  my  mountain-streams. —  War  of  Caros. 

As  the  falling  brook  to  the  ear  of  the  hunter  descending 
from  his  storm-covered  hill ;  in  a  sun-beam  rolls  the  echoing 
stream. —  Cathlin  of  Clutha. 

It  is  like  the  bursting  of  a  stream  in  the  desert,  whin  il 
comes  between  its  echoing  rocks  to  the  blasted  field  of  the 
«un. —  Temora.     Gray  streams  leap  down  from  the  rocks. — Ibid. 


84  ZHUKOVSKY. 

They  looked  on  the  ocean  ; 
With  their  soft  pensive  sadness  it  seemed  to  attune; 

The  waves'  gentle  motion 
Was  silvered  and  marked  by  the  rays  of  the  moon. 
"  How  brightly,  how  fleetly 

The  waters  roll  on  ! 

So  swiftly,  so  sweetly 
Come  pleasures  and  love — they  smile  and  are  gone." 

"  Why  sigh  then,  my  fair  one  ! 
Though  the  waters  may  ebb  and  the  years  may 
decay  ? 

My  beloved  !  my  dear  one  ! 
Can  time  on  its  wings  bear  affection  away  ? 
To  a  bard  unbefriended 
O  say,  canst  thou  bow, 
Thou,  from  monarchs  descended, 
And  heroes,  whom  Morven  is  honouring  now  ?" 

"  What  is  honour  or  glory  ? 
What  garlands  so  sacred  as  love's  holy  wreath  ? 

What  hero-bright  story 
Has    an  utterance  so    sweet  as  affection's  young 
breath  ? 


ZHUKOVSKY.  S5 

No  fears  shall  confound  us, 
No  sorrow,  no  gloom  ; 
Joy  is  sparkling  around  us, 
And  let  years  follow  years  till    life  sinks  in  the 
tomb." 

"  Come,  joys  that  smile  o'er  us, 
Ye  sweets  of  a  moment,  come  hither  and  stay  ! 

For  who  can  assure  us 
They  will  not  be  scattered  by  morning's  bright  ray? 

For  morn  will  not  linger, 

Nor  rapture  remain  ; 

I,  again  a  poor  singer, 
And  thou,  a  bright  queen  in  thy  splendor  again."* 


*  The  melancholy  character  of  the  whole  of  this  passage 
may  serve  to  recall  Ossian's  sublimely  beautiful  and  tender 
song  of  sorrow.  I  shall  be  excused  for  introducing  it. — "  Des- 
olate is  the  dwelling  of  Moina:  silence  is  in  the  house  of  her 
fathers.  Raise  the  song  of  mourning,  O  bards,  over  the  land 
of  strangers.  They  have  hut  fallen  before  us ;  for  one  day  we 
must  fall.  Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged 
days  ?  Thou  lookest  from  thy  towers  to-day;  yet  a  few  years 
and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes ;  it  howls  in  thy  empty 
court  and  whistles  round  thy  half-worn  shield.     And  let  the 

8 


86  ZHUKOVSKY. 

"  Let  the  glance  of  day  brighten, 
Let  its  radiance  be  shed  o'er  the  mountain  and  sea;* 

Thy  smiles  shall  enlighten 
All  nature,  while  living,  to  love  and  to  me ; 

With  hope  and  with  heaven, 

With  love  and  with  thee, 

What  joys  art  not  given  ? 
For  life  has  no  transports  that  beam  not  on  me." 

blast  of  the  desert  come  !  we  shall  be  renowned  in  our  day. 
The  mark  of  my  arm  shall  be  in  battle ;  my  name  in  the  song 
of  bards.  Raise  the  song,  send  round  the  shell ;  let  joy  be 
heard  in  my  hall.  When  thou,  sun  of  heaven  !  shalt  fail — if 
thou  shalt  fail,  thou  mighty  light !  if  thy  brightness  is  for  a 
season,  like  Fingal, — our  fame  shall  survive  thy  beams." — 
Cartlion. 

In  the  same  touching  spirit  is  the  noble  address  to  the  sun. 
"  — 0  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers  ! 
whence  are  thy  beams,  0  sun  ! — -'thy  everlasting  light  ?  Thou 
comest  forth  in  thy  awful  beauty,  the  stars  hide  themselves  in 
the  sky :  the  moon  cold  and  pale  sinks  in  the  western  wave. 
But  thou  thyself  movest  alone  :  who  can  be  a  companion  of 
thy  course?  The  oaks  of  the  mo  ntains  fall ;  tiic  mountains 
themselves  decay  with  years  ;  the  ocean  shrinks   and   grows 


ZHUKOVSKY.  S7 

"  The  sun  is  returning  ; 
The  orient  is  pale  with  the  coming  of  clay  ; 

The  zephyrs  of  morning 
Awakened,  like  waves  on  the  mountain-tops  play;" 
"  'Tis  the  northern  light  glancing 
Across  the  dark  sky, 
Not  the  morning  advancing  : 
Sweet  winds  !  bring  no  morn  from  the  mountains 
on  high."* 


again ;  the  moon  herself  is  lost  in  heaven  ;  but  thou  art  for 
ever  the  same,  rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of  thy  course.  V>  hen 
the  world  is  dark  with  tempests,  when  thunder  rolls  and  light- 
ning flies,  thou  lookest  in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds,  and 
laughest  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian,  thou  lookest  in  vain  ; 
for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more,  whether  thy  yellow  hair 
flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates  of 
the  west.  But  thou  art  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season,  and  thy 
years  will  have  an  end.  Thou  shalt  sleep  in  thy  clouds,  care- 
less of  the  voice  of  the  morning.  Exult  then,  O  sun,  in  the 
strength  of  thy  youth  !  age  is  dark  and  unlovely  ;  it  is  like  the 
glimmering  light  of  the  moon,  when  it  shines  through  broken 
clouds  and  the  mist  is  on  the  hills  :  the  blast  of  the  north  is  on 
the  plain — the  traveller  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his  journey. — 
Ibid. 

-The  mountains  are  covered  with  dav. —  Temora. 


SS  ZHUKOVSKY. 

"  But  list !  to  the  bustling 
Of  voices ;  they  wake  in  the  castle  ere  now." 

"  O  no  !  'tis  the  rustling 
Of    half- si  umbering    birds  as  they  dream  on  the 
bough." 

"  The  orient  is  lighted, 
Milvana  !  O  why 
Do  my  spirits,  benighted 
In  doubt  and  foreboding,  desert  me  and  die  ?" 

The  youth  has  suspended, 
In  silence,  his  harp  on  the  time-hallowed  oak  : — 

"  Unseen,  unattended, 
Let  thy  soft  music  speak,  my  sweet  harp !  as  if. 
spoke 

In  the  luxury  of  sadness,* 
The  fervour  of  truth, 
The  bright  tones  of  gladness, 
The  songs,  and  the  smiles,  and  the  sunshine  of 
youth. 

*  Pleasant  is  the  joy  of  grief. —  Carrie-thura. 


ZHUKOVSKY. 


89 


"  The  bloom  of  the  singer 
Shall   fade  with  the   grief-blast,  like  flowers  of 
the  grove  ;* 

But  here  there  shall  linger, 
The  spirit,  the  youth,  and  the  fervour  of  love. 

An  angel  here  speaking, 

Shall  often  be  seen, 

All  those  raptures  awaking, 
Which  in  days  of  our  early  devotion  have  been. 

"  My  spirit  shall  hover, 
Like  a  light  airy  shade,  o'er  the  track  of  thy  way ; 

Milvana !  thy  lover 
Shall  speak  through  his  heart  at   the  close  of  the 
day. 

The  grief  that  alarmed  us, 

Uncertainty's  fear, 

The  tears  that  disarmed  us, 
All,  all  of  life's  sorrows  shall  fly  from  us  here. 


*  Thy  death  came  like  a  blast  from  the  desert  and  laid  my 
green  head  low :  the  spring  returned  with  its  showers,  no  leaf 
of  mine  arose. — Croma. 
8* 


90 


ZHUKOVSKT. 


"  W  hen  his  life-term  is  endedf 
Affection  immortal  shall  live  in  his  soulf 

Our  spirits  there  blended, 
Undivided,  shall  love  while  eternities  roll. 

Thou  oak-tree  !  wide-spreading, 

O'ershadow  the  fair  ; — 

Ye  zephyrs  !  here  shedding 
Your  fragrance,  the  freshness  of  sympathy  bear." 

The  big  tears  were  falling  : — 
He  ceased  : — his  eye  fixed,  but  within,  like  a  knell, 

A  low  voice  was  calling — * 
"  Farewell !  my  Milvana  !  forever  farewell." 

His  hand,  damp  and  burning, 

Had  wildly  seized  hers  : 

Then  with  hurried  steps  turning, 
Like  a  phantom  of  fancy,  the  youth  disappears. 

The  moon  shone  unclouded — 
The  maiden  was  there,  but  the  minstrel  is  fled  : 

■  Within  my  bosom  is  a  voice — others  hear  it  not. —  Temort. 


ZHUKOVSKY.  91 

Like  a  silent  tree  shrouded 
In  darkness,  she  stood  in  the  wilderness  dread,* 

The  chieftain  his  daughter 

Had  traced  to  the  grove ; 

And  now  o'er  the  water 
To  exile,  a  bark  is  conveying  her  love. 

At  morn  and  at  even 
Milvana  retires  to  the  oak-tree  to  mourn  ; 

And  the  stream  that  is  driven 
Adown  the  steep  hill,  seems  her  sighs  to  return. 

"  'Tis  all  dark  and  dreary, 

Milvana  !  to  thee, 

Thy  spirit  is  weary — 
And  thy  minstrel  shall  never  return  to  the  tree." 

The  evening-wind  waking, 
Called  up  their  soft  sounds   from  the  leaves  as  \t 
roved : 


•Night  came:  the  moon  from  the  east  looked  on  the 
mournful  field:  but  they  stood  still  like  a  silent  grove  that  lifts 
it's  head  on  Gormal. — Carlhan. 


92  ZHUKOVSKY. 

The  green  branches  shaking, 
It  kisses  the  harp — but  the  heart  is  unmoved. 

Spring  came,  sweetly  bringing 

Her  eloquent  train,* 

And  nature  was  ringing 
With  rapture,  enkindling  gay  smiles  through   her 
reign. 

On  the  emerald  meadows, 
And  hills  in  the  distance,  are  gold  streams  of  light ; 

And  soft  silent  shadows 
Seemed  to  spread  over  eve   the   calm  stillness  of 
night. 

The  stars  are  in  motion 

Across  the  blue  deep  ; 

Like  a  mirror,  the  ocean  : 
And  the  winds,  hushed  to  silence,  among  the 
leaves  sleep.f 


*So  hears  a  tree  in  the  vale  the  voice  of  spring  around, 
and  pours  its  green  leaves  to  the  sun. —  Temora. 

t  Hast  thou  left  thy  blue  course  in  heaven,  golden-liaired 
son  of  the  sky?  The  west  has  opened  its  gates;  the  bed  of  thy 
repose  is  there.    The  waves  come  to  behold  thy  beauty:  they 


ZHUKOVSKY.  93 

Milvana  sat  weeping 
Beneath  the  old  tree,  but  her  thoughts  were  not 
there. 

All  nature  lay  sleeping, 
When  accents  unearthly  were  heard  in  the  air  : 

The  green  leaves  are  shaken — 

It  was  not  the  wind — * 

The  silent  strings  waken  : 
Some  ghost  hurries  by  and  leaves  music  behind.f 


lift  their  trembling  heads ;  they  see  thee  lovely  in  thy  sleep ; 
but  they  shrink  away  with  fear.  Rest  in  thy  shadowy  cave, 
O  sun  !  and  let  thy  return  be  in  joy. — Carric-ihura. 

*  Doth  the  wind  touch  thee,  0  harp  !  or  is  it  some  passing 
ghost  ? — Berralhon. 

t  The  harps  of  the  bards  were  believed  to  emit  melancholy 
and  unwonted  sounds  phrophctic  or  commemorative  of  the 
death  of  any  renowned  and  worthy  person.  This  was  attrib- 
uted to  the  light  touch  of  gliosis.  The  music  was  called  the 
warning  voice  of  the  dead. 

The  harps  of  the  bards  untouched,  sound  mournful  over  the 
hill. —  Tcmora. 

The  lone  blast  touched  their  trembling  strings :  the  sound 
is  sad  and  low. — Ibid. 


94  ZHUKOVSKT. 

The  harp's  secret  spirit 
Breathes  forth  a  long,  sorrowful,  heart-rending 
sound  :* 

She  trembled  to  hear  it, 
'Twas   softer    than    zephyrs   when   whispering 
around, 

'Twas  the  voice  of  her  lover ; — 

Her  soul  sunk  in  night  :f 

"  'Tis  over — 'tis  over — 
The  earth  is  a  waste — he  has  taken  his  flight." 

In  desolate  madness 
Milvana  had  fall'n  in  the  dust  :J  but  the  tone 

Still  breathed  its  sweet  sadness  ; 
More  sad  as  the  soul  that  inspired  it  was  gone. 


*  The  wind  was  abroad  in  the  oaks.  The  spirit  of  the 
mountain  shrieked.  The  blast  came  rustling  through  the  hall 
and  gently  touched  my  harp.  The  sound  was  mournful  and 
low,  like  the  song  of  the  tomb. — Dar-Thula. 

t  Darkness  covers  my  soul. — Prel.  Discourse. 

Darkness  gathered  on  Utha's  soul. — Carric-thura. 

t  Her  dark  brown  hair  is  spread  on  earth. — Ibid. 


ZHUKOVSKY.  95 

Its  music  she  heard  not ; 
She  woke  faint  and  chill ; 
The  star-lights  appeared  not — 
'Twas  morning — 'twas  morning,  damp,  dewy,  and 
still. 

From  morrow  to  morrow 
She  visited  still  the  old  oak  of  the  wood ; 

There  that  music  of  sorrow 
Still  broke  on  her  ear  from  the  realms  of  the  good. 

While  thus  disunited, 

On  earth  could  she  stay, 

By  her  minstrel  invited, 
To  the  heaven  where  her  thoughts  and   her  hopes 
led  the  way  ? 

Thou  harp  of  my  bosom, 
Be  still — let  thy  voice  drown    the  summons    of 
death ; 

The  delicate  blossom, 

Unopened,  shall  fade  in  the  valley  beneath : 


96  ZHUKOTSKY. 

The  wanderer  roaming 
To-morrow  will  come — 
"  My  floweret,  where  blooming  ?"* 
"  Thy  floweret ! — 'tis  withered — it  sleeps  in  the 
tomb." 

He  is  dead — but  whenever 
A  black,  starless  mantle  is  hung  o'er  the  skies ; 

When  from  fountain,  and  river, 
And  hill,  the  cold  mists  like  the  dark  billows  rise, 

Two  shades  are  seen  blending, 

United  as  when 

In  their  youth-tide  attending  ;f — 


*  Why  did  I  not  pass  away  in  secret  like  the  flower  of  the 
rock,  that  lifts  its  head  unseen  and  shows  its  withered  leaves 
to  the  blast  ? — O'dhona. 

They  fall  away  like  the  flower  on  which  the  sun  bath  look- 
ed in  his  strength  after  the  mildew  has  passed  over  it,  when  its 
head  is  heavy  with  the  drops  of  night. — Croma. 

t  It  was  a  current  opinion,  that  the  spirits  of  women  hov- 
ered over  the  earth  in  all  their  living  beauty,  and  were  often 
seen  gliding  along  like  a  sun-beam  on  a  hill. 

She  was  like  a  spirit  of  heaven  half  folded  in  the  skirt  of  a 
cloud. —  Ti-morrr. 


ZHUKOVSKT.  97 

And   the  oak  waves   its  boughs,  and  the   chords 
speak  again. 


The  sky  grew  dark:  the  forms  of  the  dead  were  blended 
with  the  clouds. — Ibid. 

Hereafter  shall  the  traveller  meet  their  dark  thick  mist  on 
Lena,  where  it  wanders,  with  their  ghosts,  beside  the  reedy 
lake.  Never  shall  they  rise  without  song  to  the  dwelling  of 
winds. — Ibid. 

Two  spirits  of  heaven  standing  each  on  his  gloomy  cloud. 
— Ibid. 

The  flower  hangs  its  heavy  head,  waving  at  times  to  the 
gale.  "  Why  dost  thou  awake  me,  0  gale  !"  it  seems  to  say, 
•'■  I  am  covered  with  the  drops  of  heaven'  the  time  of  my 
fading  is  near — the  blast  that  shall  scatter  my  leaves.  To-mor- 
row shall  the  traveller  come.  He  that  saw  me  in  beauty  shall 
come — his  eyes  will  search  in  the  fields,  but  they  will  not  find 
me." — Berralhon. 

9 


ZHUKOVSKY. 


SONG. 


Say,  ye  gentle  breezes,  say, 
Round  me  why  so  gently  breathing  '? 
What  impels  thee,  streamlet !  wreathim 
Through  the  rocks  thy  silver  way  ? 

What  awakens  new-born  joy, 
Joy  and  hope  thus  sweetly  mingled  ; 
Say,  has  pilgrim  spring  enkindled 
Rapture  with  her  laughing  eye  ? 

Lo  !  heaven's  temple,  bright,  serene, 
Where  the  busy  clouds  are  blending, 
Sinking  now,  and  now  ascending, 
Far  behind  the  forest  green  ! 

Will  the  High,  the  Holy  One 
Veil  youth's  soul-enrapturing  vision  ? 
Shall  I  hear  in  dreams  elysian 
Childhood's  early?  lovely  tone  ? 


ZHUKOVSKY. 


99 


See  the  restless  swallow  flies 
Through  the  clouds — his  own  dominion ; 
Could  I  reach  on  hope's  strong  pinion, 
Where  that  land  of  beauty  lies  ! 


O  how  sweet — how  blest  to  be 

Where  heaven's  shelter  might  protect  me  ! 

Who  can  lead  me — who  direct  me 

To  that  bright  futurity  ? 


100  ZHUKOVSKT. 


ROMANCE. 


Gather'd  yon  dark  forest  o'er 
Lo  !  the  gloomy  clouds  are  spread  : 
Bending  toward  the  desert  shore, 
See  the  melancholy  maid  ; 
Her  eyes  and  her  bosom  are  wet  with  tears  -7 
All  heaven  is  black,  and  the  storm  appears ; 
And  the  wild  winds  lift  the  billows  high, 
And  her  breast  is  heaving  with  many  a  sigh, 


"  O  my  very  soul  is  faded, 
Joy  and  sympathy  are  fled  ; 
Nature  is  in  darkness  shaded, 
Love  and  friendship  both  are  dead. 
The  hope  that  brightened  my  days  is  gone  S 
O  whither,  my  angel !   art  thou  flown  ? 
Too  blest  was  I,  too  wild  with  bliss, 
For  T  lived  and  loved,  and  loved  for  this  ' 


ZHUKOVSKY.  101 

"  Swell  then,  burning  tears  !  the  deep, 
Flow,  with  yonder  billows  flow  : 
And  ye  lonely  forests  !  weep, 
Meet  companions  of  my  woe. 

My  days  of  pleasure,  though  short  and  few, 

Are  fled  for  ever — O  earth  !  Adieu  ! 

He  sleeps — will  death  restore  him  ?  Never ! 

For  the  joy  that's  lost  is  lost  forever. 

"  Nature's  sad  and  wintry  day 
Is  of  momentary  gloom  : 
Soon  in  Spring's  reviving  ray 
All  her  loveliness  shall  bloom. 
But  joy  has  never  a  second  spring  : 
And  time  no  ray  of  light  can  bring 
But  from  tearful  eyes: — there's  no  relief 
From  dark  despair's  corroding  grief!" 

9* 


The  hope  that  bngin. 
O  whither,  my  angel!  art  thou  nuwn  ( 
Too  blest  was  I,  too  wild  with  bliss, 
For  T  lived  and  loved,  and  loved  for  this! 


km 


KARAMSIN. 


THE   SONG  OF  BORNHOLM.* 

Curses  on  the  world's  decree  ! 

That  decree  which  bid  us  part : 
Who  has  e'er  resisted  thee, 

Passion-throbbing,  maddened  heart  ? 


*  Karamsin  states  that  on  one  of  the  barren  islands  of  the 
Baltic  he  saw  a  pale  and  wretched-looking  young  man,  who 
sang  to  the  melancholy  tones  of  a  lyre  the  song  of  which  the 
above  is  a  translation.  He  afterwards  discovered  that  the 
miserable  being  had  long  indulged  an  incestuous  passion;  and 
had  been  banished  with  the  bane  of  a  father's  curse  upon  him 
to  that  desolate  abode.  He  saw  the  shier  afterwards  in  a 
convent,  and  the  father  also.  The  old  man  was  an  image  of 
the  wildest  misery.  He  discovered  that  Karamsin  had  '.earned 
the  cause  of  his  affliction,  and  urgently  implored  him  not  to 
reveal  it  to  the  world. 


106  KARAMSIN. 

Is  aught  holier  than  the  light 

Kindled  in  our  souls  by  heaven  ? 

Is  aught  stronger  than  the  might 
Given  to  love — to  beauty  given  ? 

Yes  !  I  love — shall  ever  love  ! 

Curse  the  passion  if  ye  will, 
Call  down  vengeance  from  above, 

Still  I  love — adore  her  still ! 

Holy  Nature  !  I,  thy  child, 
To  thy  sheltering  bosom  flee  : 

Thou  hast  fanned  this  flame  so  wild, 
I  am  innocent  with  thee. 

If  to  yield  to  passion's  sway, 
Be  a  dark  and  damning  sin  ; 

Why  hast  thou,  O  tempter !  say, 
Lighted  passion's  fires  within  ? 

No  !  thy  storm-winds,  as  they  rolled, 
Gently  rocked  our  secret  bed  ; 


KARAMSIN.  107 

And  thy  thunder,  though  it  growled, 
Never  burst  upon  our  head. 

Bornhohn  !  Bornholm  !  to  thy  home 
Memory,  wildered  memory  flies  : 

Thither  would  my  spirit  roam 
From  its  tears — its  agonies  ! 

Vain  the  wish  !  an  outlaw  I, 

Followed  by  a  father's  curse  ; 
Doomed  in  banishment  to  die, 

Or  despairing  live — as  worse  ! 

Lila  !  has  thy  spirit  shrunk 

From  thy  woes,  and  found  a  grave? 

Has  thy  burdened  misery  sunk 
In  oblivion's  silent  wave  ? 

Let  thy  shadow  then  appear 
Smile  upon  me  from  the  tomb  ; 

Give  me,  love  !  a  welcome  there, 

Come,  though  veii'd  in  darkness, — come  ! 


108  KARAMSIN. 


THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

How  frightful  the  grave  !  how  deserted  and  drear ! 
With  the   howls  of  the  storm-wind — the  creaks  of 
the  bier, 
And  the  white  bones  all  clattering  together ! 

SECOND  VOICE. 

How  peaceful  the  grave  !  its  quiet  how  deep  : 
Its  zephyrs  breathe  calmly,  and  soft  is  its  sleep, 
And  flow'rets  perfume  it  with  ether. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

There  riots   the  blood-crested  worm  on  the  dead. 
And  the  yellow  skull  serves  the  foul  toad  for  a  bed. 
And  snakes  in  its  nettle  weeds  hiss. 


KARAMSIN.  109 

SECOND  VOICE. 

How  lovely,  how   sweet  the  repose  of  the  tomb  : 
No    tempests    are    there  : — but    the    nightingales 
come 
And  sing  their  sweet  chorus  of  bliss. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

The  ravens  of  night  flap  their  wings  o'er  the  grave  : 
'Tis  the  vulture's  abode  : — 'tis   the  wolf's  dreary 
cave, 
Where  they  tear  up  the  earth  with  their  fangs. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

There  the  coney  at  evening  disports  with  his  love, 
Or  rests  on  the  sod  ; — while  the  turtles  above, 
Repose  on  the  bough  that  o'erhangs. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

There    darkness    and    dampness    with    poisonous 

breath, 
And   loathsome  decay  fill  the    dwelling   of  ( 
The  trees  are  all  barren  and  bare ! 
10 


110  KARAMSIN. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

O  soft  are  the  breezes  that  play  round  the  tomb, 
And  sweet  with  the  violet's  wafted  perfume, 
With  lilies  and  jessamine  fair. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

The  pilgrim  who  reaches  this  valley  of  tears, 
Would  fain  hurry  by,  and  with  trembling  and  fears, 
He  is  launched  on  the  wreck-covered  river ! 


SECOND  VOICE. 

The  traveller  outworn  with  life's  pilgrimage  dreary, 
Lays  down  his  rude  staff,  like  one  that  is  weary, 
And  sweetly  reposes  for  ever. 


KARAMSIN.  Ill 


AUTUMN. 


The  dry  leaves  are  falling ; 
The  cold  breeze  above 
Has  stript  of  its  glories 
The  sorrowing  grove. 

The  hills  are  all  weeping, 
The  field  is  a  waste, 
The  songs  of  the  forest 
Are  silent  and  past : 

And  the  songsters  are  vanished  ; 
In  armies  they  fly, 
To  a  clime  more  benignant, 
A  friendlier  sky. 

The  thick  mists  are  veiling 
The  valley  in  white  : 


1  12  KARAMSIN. 

With  the  smoke  of  the  village 
They  blend  in  their  flight. 


And  lo  !  on  the  mountain 
The  wanderer  stands, 
And  sees  the  pale  autumn 
Pervading  the  lands. 

Thou  sorrowful  wanderer, 
Sigh  not—nor  weep  ! 
For  Nature,  though  shrouded, 
Will  wake  from  her  sleep. 

The  spring,  proudly  smiling, 
Shall  all  things  revive  ; 
And  gay  bridal-garments 
Of  splendor  shall  give. 

But  man's  chilling  winter 
Is  darksome  and  dim  ; 
For  no  second  spring-tide 
E'er  dawns  upon  hira. 


KARAMSIN.  113 


The  gloom  of  his  evening, 
Time  dissipates  never  : 
His  sun  when  departed 
Is  vanisht  for  ever. 

10* 


114  KARAMSIN. 


LILEA. 


What  a  lovely  flower  I  see  : 
Bloom  in  snowy  beauty  there — 
O  how  fragrant  and  how  fair  ! 
Can  that  lily  bloom  for  me  ? 
Thee  to  pluck,  be  mine  the  bliss, 
Place  upon  my  breast  and  kiss  ! 
Why  then  is  that  bliss  denied  ? 
Why  does  heaven  our  fates  divide  ? 

Sorrow  now  my  bosom  fills  ; 
Tears  run  down  my  cheeks  like  rills  j 
Far  away  that  flower  must  bloom, 
And  in  vain  I  sigh,  "  O  come  !" 
Softly  zephyr  glides  between, 
Waving  boughs  of  emerald  green. 
Purest  flow'rets  bend  their  head, 
Shake  their  little  cups  of  dew  : 
Fate  unpitying  and  untrue. 


KARAMSIN.  115 

Fate  so  desolate  and  dread 

Says,  "  She  blossoms  not  for  thee  ; — 
In  vain  thou  sheddest  the  bitterest  tear. 
Another  hand  shall  gather  her  : — 
And  thou — go  mourn  thy  misery." 
O  flower  so  lovely  !  Lilea  fair  ! 
With  thee  I  fain  my  fate  would  share. 
But  heaven  hath  said,  "  It  cannot  be  !" 


116  KARAMSIN. 


EPIGRAMS. 


TO  NICANDER. 

You  talk  of  your  taste  and  your  talents  to  me, 
And  ask  my  opinion — so  don't  be  offended : 
Your  taste  is  as  bad  as  a  taste  can  well  be  ; 
And   as  for  your  talents — you  think  them  most 
splendid. 


He  managed  to  live  a  long  life  through, 
If  breathing  be  living  ; — but  where  he  was  bound, 
And  why  he  was  born,  nor  ask'd  nor  knew. — 
O  why  was  he  here  to  cumber  the  ground  ? 


ITBttET, 


DMITRIEV. 


DURING  A  THUNDER  STORM. 

It  thunders !  Sons  of  dust,  in  reverence  bow  ! 
Ancient  of  days  !    Thou  speakest  from  above  : 
Thy  right  hand  wields  the  bolt  of  terror  now  ; 
That  hand  which  scatters  peace  and  joy  and  love. 
Almighty  !  trembling  like  a  timid  child, 
I  hear  thy  awful  voice — alarmed — afraid — 
I  see  the  flashes  of  thy  lightning  wild, 
And  in  the  very  grave  would  hide  my  head. 

Lord!  what  is  man?  Up  to  the  sun  he  flies — 
Or  feebly  wanders  through  earth's  vale  of  dust : 
There  is  he  lost  midst  heaven's  high  mysteries, 
And  here  in  error  and  in  darkness  lost: 


120  DMITRIEV. 

Beneath  the  storm-clouds,  on  life's  raging  sea, 

Like  a  poor  sailor — by  the  tempest  tost 

In  a  frail  bark — the  sport  of  destiny, 

He  sleeps — and  dashes  on  the  rocky  coast. 

Thou  breathest ; — and  th'  obedient  storm  is  still : 
Thou  speakest ; — silent  the  submissive  wave  : 
Man's  shattered  ship  the  rushing  waters  fill, 
And  the  husht  billows  roll  across  his  grave. 
Sourceless  and  endless  God  !  compared  with  Thee, 
Life  is  a  shadowy  momentary  dream  : 
And  time,  when  viewed  through  Thy  eternity, 
Less  than  the  mote  of  morning's  golden  beam. 


DMITRIEV.  121 


THE  TZAR  AND  THE  TWO   SHEPHERDS. 

The  tzar  has  wandered  from  the  city-gate, 

To  seek  seclusion  from  the  cares  of  state  ; 

And  thus  he  mused  :  "  What  troubles  equal  mine  ! 

That  I  accomplish  when  I  purpose  this  : — 

Tn  vain  I  bid  the  sun  of  concord  shine, 

And  toil  unwearied  for  my  subjects'  bliss : 

Its  brightness  lasts  a  moment,  and  the  tzar 

For  the  state's  safety  is  compelled  to  war ; 

God  knows  I  love  my  subjects — fain  would  bless 

them, 
But  oft  mistake — and  injure  and  oppress  them. 
1  seek  for  truth,  but  courtiers  all  deceive  me ; 
They  fill  their  purses  and  deluded  leave  me  ! 
My  people  sigh  and  groan : — I  share  their  pain, 
And  struggle  to  relieve  them,  but  in  vain." 

Thus  mused  the  lord  of  many  nations  ;  then 
Looked  up,  and  saw  wide  scattered  o'er  the  glen 
11 


122  DMITRIEV. 

The  poor  lean  flocks  : — the  sheep  had  lost  their 

lambs, 
And  the  stray'd  lambkins  bleated  for  their  dams: — 
They  fled  from  place  to  place,  alarmed,  afraid  ; 
The  lazy  dogs  were  sleeping  in  the  shade  ! 
How  busy  is  the  shepherd : — now  he  hies 
To  the  grove's  verge  : — now  to  the  valley  flies : — 
Seeks  to  assemble  here  the  sheep  that  stray, 
And  there  a  favourite  lamb  he  hurries  on  : 
But  lo  !  the  wolf ! — he  springs  upon  his  prey  : 
The  shepherd  hastens,  but  the  thief  is  gone  : 
He  cries — he  beats  his  breast — he  tears  his  hair, 
Invoking  death  in  agonized  despair. 

"  Behold  my  picture  !"  said  his  majesty, 

"  Here  is  another  sovereign,  just  like  me  : — 

I'm  glad  to  know  vexations  travel  far, 

And  plague  a  shepherd  as  they  plague  a  tzar." 

And  on  he  moved  in  more  contented  mood — 
Whither  he  knew  not; — but  beyond  the  wood 
He  saw  the  loveliest  flock  that  ever  grazed, 


DMITRIEV.  123 

And  linger'd,  mute  with  wonder,  as  he  gazed  : — 
How  strong,  how  sleek,  how  satisfied,  how  fair  ! 
Wool  soft  as  silk,  and  piled  in  luxury  there, 
Its  golden  burden  seemed  too  great  to  bear. 
The  lambs,  as  if  they  ran  for  wagers,  playing, 
Or  near  their  dams,  or  far — securely  straying — 

The  shepherd,  'neath  the  linden-tree, 

Tuned  his  pipe  most  joyfully  ! 

*  Ah  !"  said  the  tzar,  "  ye  little  think 
How  close  ye  stand  on  danger's  brink, 
The  uncharitable  wolf  is  near  : — 
And  he  for  music  has  no  ear." 

And  so  it  was — as  if  the  wolf  had  heard. 
Advancing  in  full  gallop  he  appear'd. 

But  the  dogs  the  wily  traitor  knew, 
Sprung  up  and  at  the  robber  flew  : — 
His  blood  has  for  his  daring  paid  : 
And  the  lambkin  that  through  fear  had  strayed, 
Is  gather'd  into  the  fold  anew ; 


124  DMITR1EV. 

And  the  shepherd's  pipe  was  echoed  still, 
Down  the  vale  and  up  the  hill. 

The  monarch  lost  all  patience  now  : — 
"  What !   dost  thou  sit  there  like  a  rock, 
While  wolves  are  ravaging  thy  flock  ? 
A  very  pretty  shepherd  thou  !" 

"  Tzar  !  here  no  evil  can  betide  my  sheep, 
My  dogs  are  faithful — and  they  do  not  sleep.'''- 


DMITJRIEV.  125 

THE  BROKEN  FIDDLE. 

A  wretched*  fiddle  fell,  in  fragments, — these, 
Though  once  discordant,  by  the  hand  divine 

Of  music  fashioned,  breathed  sweet  harmonies : 

***** 
So  is  man  tuned  by  sufferings'  discipline. 


*  Original,  diushenna — one  of  a  dozen — a  frequent  expression 
for  what  is  very  common  and  useless. 

11* 


126  DMITRIEV. 

THE  DOVE  AND  THE  STRANGER. 
STRANGER. 

Why  mourning  there  so  sad,  thou  gentle  dove  ? 

DOVE. 

I  mourn,  unceasing  mourn,  my  vanished  love. 

STRANGER. 

What !  has  thy  love  then  fled,  or  faithless  proved  ? 

DOVE. 

Ah  no  !  the  sportsman  murdered  him  I  loved  ! 

STRANGER. 

Unhappy  one  !  beware  !  that  sportsman's  nigh  ! 

DOVE. 

O  let  him  come — or  else  of  grief  I  die. 


DMITRIET.  127 


OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  BOGDANOVICH, 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  POEM  PSYCHE. 

Here  Love  unseen,  when  sinks  the  evening  sun, 
Wets  the  cold  urn  with  tears,  and  mournful  thinks, 
While  his  sad  spirit,  sorrow-broken,  sinks, — 
None  now  can  sing  my  angel  Psyche — none  ! 


128  DMITRIET, 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

Fair  sister ! 

"  Infant  brother  dear  ! 
On  the  wing,  on  the  wing  ?" 

Wandering  the  wide  world  over 
In  search  of  a  lover — there  is  no  love?' : 
Lost  as  if  the  plague  had  been  there  ! 

"I've  been  seeking  a  friend! — there's  none  below, 
The  world  must  soon  to  ruin  go  ! 
Written  in  sand  are  the  oaths  now  spoken, 
'Tis  all  lip-service,  and  promise  broken  ; 
My  name  is  a  cloak  for  thirst  of  gain  .'" 

And  mine  for  passion  impure,  profane ! 


;UL©V< 


KRILOV. 


THE  ASS  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE.* 

An  ass  a  nightingale  espied, 

And  shouted  out,  "  Holla  !  holla !  good  friend  ! 

Thou  art  a  first  rate  singer,  they  pretend  : — 

Now  let  me  hear  thee,  that  I  may  decide  ; 

I  really  wish  to  know — the  world  is  partial  ever — 

If  thou  hast  this  great  gift,  and  art  indeed  so  clever." 

The  nightingale  began  her  heavenly  lays ; 
Through  all  the  regions  of  sweet  music  ranging, 
Varying  her  song  a  thousand  different  ways ; 
Rising  and  falling,  lingering,  ever  changing : 


*  Krilov  gave  me  this  fable  in  MS.  It  has  since  been  printed 
in  his  Basiii. 


132  KRILOV. 

Full  of  wild  rapture  now — then  sinking  oft 

To  almost  silence — melancholy,  soft, 

As  distant  shepherd's  pipe  at  evening's  close  : — 

Strewing  the  wood  with  lovelier  music ; — there 

All  nature  seems  to  listen  and  repose  : 

No  zephyr  dares  disturb  the  tranquil  air: — 

All  other  voices  of  the  grove  are  still, 

And  the  charm'd  flocks  lay  down  beside  the  rill. 

The  shepherd  like  a  statue  stands — afraid 
His  breathing  may  disturb  the  melody, 
His  finger  pointing  to  the  harmonious  tree, 
Seems  to  say,  "  Listen !"  to  his  favourite  maid. 

The  singer  ended  : — and  our  critic  bow'd 
His  reverend  head  to  earth,  and  said  aloud  : — 

"Now  that  's  so  so  ; — thou  really  hast  some  merit; 
Curtail  thy  song,  and  critics  then  might  hear  it ; 
Thy  voice  wants  sharpness  : — but  if  Chanticleer 
Would  give  thee  a  few  lessons,  doubtless  he 
Might  raise  thy  voice  and  modulate  thy  ear; 


KT.ILOV. 

And  thou  in  spite  of  all  thy  faults  may'st  be 

A  very  decent  singer." 

The  poor  bird 
In  silent  modesty  the  critic  heard, 
And  winged  her  peaceful  flight  into  the  air, 
O'er  many  and  many*  a  field  and  forest  fair. 

.Many  such  critics  you  and  I  have  seen  : — 
Heaven  be  our  screen  ! 


*  Literally — "  three  times  nine  " 
12 


tot?  ^1  tvt  "Tii*  TF  ^  77*  ^TP1 1U> 


KHEMNITZER. 


THE  HOUSE-BUILDER. 

Whate'er  thou  purposest  to  do, 
With  an  unwearied  zeal  pursue  ; 
To-day  is  thine — improve  to-day, 
Nor  trust  to-morrow's  distant  ray. 

A  certain  man  a  house  would  build, 
The  place  is  with  materials  filled ; 
And  every  thing  is  ready  there — 
Is  it  a  difficult  affair  ? 
Yes  !  till  you  fix  the  corner-stone  ; 
It  wont  erect  itself  alone. 
Day  rolls  on  day,  and  year  on  year, 
And  nothing  yet  is  done — 
There  's  always  something  to  delay 
The  business  to  another  day. 
12* 


KHEMNITZER. 

And  thus  in  silent  waiting  stood 
The  piles  of  stone  and  piles  of  wood  j 
Till  Death,  who  in  his  vast  affairs 
Ne'er  puts  things  off — as  men  in  theirs — 
And  thus,  if  I  the  truth  must  tell, 
Does  his  work  finally  and  well — 
Winked  at  our  hero  as  he  past, 
"  Your  house  is  finished,  Sir,  at  last ; 
A  narrower  house — a  house  of  clay — 
Your  palace  for  another  day ! 


KHEMNITZER.  139 


THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR  MAN. 

So  goes  the  world  ; — if  wealthy,  you  may  call 
This  friend,  that  brother  ; — friends  and  brothers  all; 
Though  you  are  worthless — witless — never  mind  it; 
You  may  have  been  a  stable  boy — what  then  ? 
'Tis  wealth,  good  Sir,  makes  honourable  men. 
You  seek  respect,  no  doubt,  and  you  will  find  it. 

But  if  you  are  poor,  heaven  help  you  !  though  your 

sire 
Had  royal  blood  within  him,  and  though  you 
Possess  the  intellect  of  angels  too, 
'Tis  all  in  vain  ; — the  world  will  ne'er  inquire 
On  such  a  score  : — Why  should  it  take  the  pains  ? 
'Tis  easier  to  weigh  purses,  sure,  than  brains. 


140  KHEMNITZER. 

I  once  saw  a  poor  devil,  keen  and  clever. 
Witty  and  wise  : — he  paid  a  man  a  visit, 
And  no  one  noticed  him,  and  no  one  ever 
Gave  him  a  welcome.  "  Strange,"  cried  I,  "whence 
is  it? 
He  walked  on  this  side,  then  on  that, 
He  tried  to  introduce  a  social  chat ; 
Now  here,  now  there,  in  vain  he  tried  ; 
Some  formally  and  freezingly  replied, 

And  some 
Said  by  their  silence — "  Better  stay  at  home." 

A  rich  man  burst  the  door, 

As  Croesus  rich  I'm  sure, 
He  could  not  pride  himself  upon  his  wit 
Nor  wisdom — for  he  had  not  got  a  bit : 
He  had  what's  better  ; — he  had  wealth. 

What  a  confusion  ! — all  stand  up  erect — 
These  crowd  around  to  ask  him  of  his  health; 

These  bow  in  honest  duty  and  respect; 
And  these  arrange  a  sofa  or  a  chair, 
And  these  conduct  him  there. 


KHEMNITZER.  141 

••  Allow  me,  Sir,  the  honour  ;" — then  a  bow 
Down  to  the  earth — Is't  possible  to  show 
Meet  gratitude  for  such  kind  condescension? 

The  poor  man  hung  his  head, 

And  to  himself  he  said, 

ft. 
u  This  is  indeed  beyond  my  comprehension  :" 

Then  looking  round 

One  friendly  face  he  found, 
And  said — "  Pray  tell  me  why  is  wealth  preferr'd 
To  wisdom  ?" — "That's  a  silly  question,  friend !" 
Replied  the  other — "  have  you  never  heard, 

A  man  may  lend  his  store 

Of  gold  or  silver  ore, 
But  wisdom  none  can  borrow,  none  can  lend  ?" 


142  JLHEMNITZER. 


THE  LION  S  COUNCIL  OF  STATE. 

A  lion  .held  a  court  for  state  affairs  : 

Why?  That  is  not  your  business,  Sir, 'twas  theirs! 

He  called  the  elephants  for  counsellors— still 

The  council-board  was  incomplete  ; 

And  the  king  deemed  it  fit 

With  asses  all  the  vacancies  to  fill. 

Heaven  help  the  state — for  lo!  the  bench  of  asses 

The  bench  of  elephants  by  far  surpasses. 

He  was  a  fool — the  aforesaid  king — you'll  say; 
Better  have  kept  those  places  vacant  surely, 
Than  fill  them  up  so  poorly. 
O  no  !  that's  not  the  royal  way  ; 
Things  have  been  done  for  ages  thus — and  we 
Have  a  deep  reverence  for  antiquity  : 
Nought  worse,  Sir,  than  to  be,  or  to  appear 
Wiser  and  better  than  our  fathers  were. 


KHEMNITZER.  143 

The  list  must  be  complete,  even  though  you  make  it 
Complete  with  asses  ;  for  the  lion  saw 
Such  had  for  ages  been  the  law — 
He  was  no  radical  to  break  it ! 


"  Besides,"  he  said,  "  my  elephants'  good  sense 
Will  soon  my  asses'  ignorance  diminish, 

For  wisdom  has  a  mighty  influence." 
They  made  a  pretty  finish  ! 

The  asses'  folly  soon  obtained  the  sway  ; 

The  elephants  became  as  dull  as  they  ! 


141  KHEMX1TZER. 


THE  WAGONS. 

I  saw  a  long,  long  train 
Of  many  a  loaded,  lumbering  wain  ; 
And  one  there  was  of  most  gigantic  size, 
It  look'd  an  elephant  'midst  a  swarm  of  flies  ; 
It  roll'd  so  proudly  that  a  passenger 
Curiously  asked — "  Now  what  may  that  contain  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  bladders,  Sir  !" 

Such  masses  (misnamed  men  I)  are  little  rare, 
Inflated,  bullying,  proud,  and  full  of — air. 


BOBROV. 


ADDilESS  TO   THE  DEITY. 

From  the  Khersonida, p.  41 — 3. 

O  thou  unutterable  Potentate  ! 

Through  nature's  vast  extent  sublimely  great ! 

Thy  lovely  form  the  flower-decked  field  discloses, 

Thy  smiles  are  seen  in  nature's  sunny  face  : 

Milk- coloured  lilies  and  wild  blushing  roses 

Are  bright  with  Thee  : — Thy  voice  of  gentleness 

Speaks    in    the  light-winged  whispering    zephyrs 

playing 
Midst   the    young  boughs,  or   o'er  the  meadows 

straying : 
Thy  breath  gives  life  to  all ;  below,  above, 
And  all  things  revel  in  thy  light  and  love. 


148  B0BB.0V. 

But  here,  on  these  gigantic  mountains,  here 
Thy  greatness,  glory,  wisdom,  strength,  and  spirit 
In  terrible  sublimity  appear  ! 
Thy  awe-imposing  voice  is  heard, — we  hear  it  ! 
Th'  Almighty's  fearful  voice  ;  attend,  it  breaks 
The  silence,  and  in  solemn  warning  speaks  : 
His  the  light  tones  that  whisper  midst  the  trees ; 
His,  his  the  whistling  of  the  busy  breeze  ; 
His,  the  storm-thunder  roaring,  rattling  round,* 
When  element  with  element  makes  war 
Amidst  the  echoing  mountains :  on  whose  bound, 
Whose  highest  bound  he  drives  his  fiery  car 
Glowing  like  molten  iron  ;  or  enshrined 
In  robes  of  darkness,  riding  on  the  wind 
Across  the  clouded  vault  of  heaven  : — What  eye 
Has  not  been  dazzled  by  Thy  majesty  ? 


*  I  have  endeavoured  to  imitate  the  singular  adaptation  of 
words  to  sound,  of  which  the  Russian  language  aifords  so  many 
striking  examples  : 
Original — 

Tvoi  dukh  vsivaet  vse  boriushchii 

V  sikh — sikh  svistjeshchikh  vikhrei  silakh 

Srazhaiushchikhsa  mezhdu  Gov! 


BOBROV.  149 

Where  is  the  ear  that  has  not  heard  Thee  speak  ? 
Thou  breathest ! — forest-oaks  of  centuries 
Turn  their  uprooted  trunks  towards  the  skies. 
Thou  thunderest ! — adamantine  mountains  break, 
Tremble,  and  totter,  and  apart  are  riven  ! 
Thou  lightenest !  and  the  rocks  inflame  ;  thy  power 
Of  fire  to  their  metallic  bosom  driven, 
Melts  and  devours  them: — Lo  !  they  are  no  more: — 
They  pass  away  like  wax  in  the  fierce  flame, 
Or  the  thick  mists  that  frown  upon  the  sun, 
Which  he  but  glances  at  and  they  are  gone ; 
Or  like  the  sparkling  snow  upon  the  hill, 
When  noon-tide  darts  its  penetrating  beam. 
What  do  I  say  ?     At  God's  almighty  will, 
The  affrighted  world  falls  headlong  from  its  sphere, 
Planets  and  suns  and  systems  disappear  ! 
But  Thy  eternal  throne — Thy  palace  bright, 
Zion — stands  steadfast  in  unchanging  might ; 
Zion — Thy  own  peculiar  seat — Thy  home  ! 
But  here,  O  God  !  here  is  Thy  temple  too  : 
Heaven's  sapphire  arch  is  its  resplendent  dome ; 
Its  columns — trees  that  have  for  ages  stood  ; 
13* 


1 50  BOBROV, 

Its  incense  is  the  flower-perfumed  dew ; 
Its  symphony — the  music  of  the  wood  ; 
Its  ornaments — the  fairest  gems  of  spring  ; 
Its  altar  is  the  stony  mountain  proud  ! 
Lord  !  from  this  shrine  to  Thy  abode  I  bring 
Trembling,  devotion's  tribute — though  not  loud, 
Nor  pomp-accompanied  :  Thy  praise  I  sing, 
And  thou  wilt  deign  to  hear  the  lowly  offering. 


BOBROV.  151 


MEDINA. 


From  the  Kliersonida. 


Thou  wondrous  brother  of  the  prophet,  sun  ! 
So  brightly  on  Medina's  temple  burning  ; 
And  scarce  less  beautiful  the  crescent  moon, 
When  moving  gently  o'er  the  shadows  dun 
Of  evening  : — and  their  verge  to  silver  turning. 
O  what  a  lovely,  soft  tranquillity 
Rests  on  the  earth  and  breathes  along  the  sea  ! 
Here  is  no  cedar  bent  with  misery ; 
No  holy  cypress  sighs  or  weeps,  as  seen 
In  other  lands,  where  his  dark  branches  green 
Mourn  in  the  desert  o'er  neglected  graves : 
Here  his  all-sheltering  boughs  he  calmly  waves 
In  the  dim  light,  the  sacred  vigils  keeping 
O'er  the  blest  ashes  on  earth's  bosom  sleeping. 
Picture  of  God  !  upon  the  prophet's  shrine 
Shine  brightly — brightly,  beautifully  shine 
Upon  those  holy  fields  where  once  he  trod, 


152  BOBROV. 

And  flowers  sprung  up  beneath  his  innocent  feet. 
Tulips  and  aloes  and  narcissus,  sweet, 
A  lovely  carpet  for  the  child  of  God  ! 
There  have  our  privileged,  pilgrim  footsteps  been, 
This  have  we  seen — yes,  brother  !  this  have  seen  : 
The  grave,  the  life,  the  ashes,  and  the  dome 
Eternal  and  the  heavens  :  and  there  have  bought 
The  grace  of  God  and  found  the  joy  we  sought, 
A  certain  entrance  to  our  final  home. 

And  now,  be  short  our  houseward  way ! 

Our  fathers'  habitations  now  appear  ! 
O  with  what  transports  shall  we  hear  them  say, 
With  what  loud   greetings,    "  Welcome,  welcome 

here  !" 
The  swelling-bosom'd  wife,  the  black-hair'd  son 
And  black-eyed  daughter  greet  our  joyous  train, 
Rushing  from  our  own  doors  they  hither  run, 
And  songs  of  rapture  loudly  hail  us  then. 
Their  trembling  hands  the  fragrant  aloe  bear, 
Which  joyful  o'er  our  wearied  limbs  they  throw; 

Home  of  our  fathers  !  now  appear, 

Our  houseward  path  be  shortened  now ! 


60BR0V.  153 


SHEIK-HUIABIS  CREED, 

AS    DESCRIBED     BY    THE    CHERIF. 

From  the  Khersonida. 

'Tis  Allah  governs  this  terrestrial  ball, 
To  all  gives  laws,  as  he  gave  life  to  all ! 
He  rules  the  unnumbered  circles  bright  with  bliss 
That  from  the  ends   of  heaven   send   forth  then- 
beams  : 
He  rules  the  space,  the  infinite  abyss, 
The  undefined  and  wandering  ether  streams, 
Where  thousand,  thousand  stars  and  planets  play — 
What  are  the  laws  that  guide  them  on  their  way  ? 
They  are  no  perishable  records — laws 
Written  with  pen  and  ink : — No  !  Allah  spreads 
The  golden  roll  of  nature  :  o'er  our  heads 
Opens  his  glorious  volume  and  withdraws 
The  veil  of  ignorance  :  read  the  letters  there, 
That  is  the  blazing,  burning  record,  where 
The  letters  are  not  idle  lines,  but  things : 


154  B0BR0V. 

Read  there  the  name  of  Allah,  dazzling  bright, 
In  works  of  eloquence  and  ivords  of  light ! 
Shut,  shut  all  other  books ;  and  if  thy  soul, 
Borne  upward  on  devotion's  angel-wings, 
Soar  to  the  heaven,  from  earth  and  earth's  control, 
Thou  shalt  perceive — shalt  know  the  Deity. 
His  splendors  then  shall  burst  upon  thy  eye, 
An  effluence  of  noon-tide  round  thee  roll, 
Thy  spirit  glad  with  light  and  love  ; — a  sun 
Of  pure  philosophy  to  lead  thee  on. 


BOBROV.  155 


THE   GOLDEN  PALACE. 


CHERTOG  TVOI  VIZHDU. 


SUNG  AT  MIDNIGHT    HI    THE    GREEK  CHURCHES  THE  LAST 
WEEK  BEFORE  EASTER. 

From  Ike  Sclavonic. 
The  golden  palace  of  my  God 
Tow'ring  above  the  clouds  I  see  : 
Beyond  the  cherubs'  bright  abode, 
Higher  than  angels'  thoughts  can  be  : 
How  can  I  in  those  courts  appear 
Without  a  wedding  garment  on  ? 
Conduct  me,  Thou  life-giver,  there, 
Conduct  me  to  Thy  glorious  throne  ! 
And  clothe  me  with  Thy  robes  of  light, 
And  lead  me  through  sin's  darksome  night. 
My  Saviour  and  my  God  ! 


15G  BOBROV. 


MIDNIGHT  HYMN 

OF  THE  RUSSIAN  CHURCHES,  SUNG  AT  EASTER. 


Vskuiu  mia  esi  oostavil. 

Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? 
Why,  thou  never-setting  Light, 
Is  Thy  brightness  veiled  from  me  ? 
Why  does  this  unusual  night 
Cloud  thy  blest  benignity  ? 
I  am  lost  without  Thy  ray  ; 
Guide  my  wandering  footsteps,  Lord  ! 
Light  my  dark  and  erring  way 
To  the  noon-tide  of  Thy  word  ! 


BOBROV.  157 

IZHE    KHERUVIMIJ, 


OR  SONG  OF  CHERUBIM. 


THE  HYMN  CHANTED  IN  THE  RUSSIAN  CHURCHES  DURING  THE 
PROCESSION  OF  THE  CUP. 

See  the  glorious  cherubim 

Thronging  round  the  Eternal's  throne ; 
Hark  !  they  sing  their  holy  hymn 

To  the  unutterable  One. 
All-supporting  Deity — 
Living-spirit — praise  to  Thee  ! 

Rest,  ye  worldly  tumults,  rest ! 

Here  let  all  be  peace  and  joy : 
Grief  no  more  shall  rend  our  breast, 

Tears  no  more  shall  dew  our  eye 

Heaven-directed  spirits  rise 
To  the  temple  of  the  skies! 
Join  the  ranks  of  angels  bright, 
Near  th'  Eternal's  dazzling  light. 

Khvalim  Boga.* 


Hallelujah 
14 


15S  B0BR0V. 


BIRTH-DAY. 

Not  the  first  tribute  of  our  lyre, 
Not  the  first  fruits  of  infant  spring, 
But  flames  from  love's  long  kindled  fire, 
And  oft-repeated  prayers  we  bring 

To  crown  thy  natal  day. 

'Tis  not  to-day  that  first  we  tell 

(When  was  affection's  spirit  mute  ?) 

How  long  our  hearts  have  loved — how  well — 

Nor  tune  our  soft  and  votive  flute, 

Nor  light  the  altar's  ray. 

That  altar  is  our  household  shrine — 
Its  flame — the  bosom's  kindly  heat : 
Its  offering,  sympathy  divine  ; 
Its  incense,  as  the  may-dew  sweet : 

Accept  thy  children's  lay. 


BOBROV. 


159 


RULES  FOR  THE  HEART  AND  THE  UNDER- 
STANDING. 

1. 

O  son  of  nature!  let  self-culture  be 
The  object  of  thy  earliest  toils  :  as  yet 
Thy  lamp  burns   bright — thy   day  shines  glori- 
ously— 
Thou  canst  not  labour  when  thy  sun  is  set ! 

2. 
Wouldst  thou  The  Unseen  Spirit  see  : 
First  learn  to  know  thyself;  and  He 
"Will  then  be  shadowed  forth  in  thee  ] 

3. 

God  is  a  spirit  through  creation's  whole, 
As  in  this  mortal  tenement — the  soul. 

4. 
The  sun  that  gives  the  world  its  fairest  light 
Is  not  yon  orb  welcomed  by  the  morning  hour, 
And  by  the  eve  expelled  ; — it  is  the  power 
Of  an  enlightening  conscience  pure  and  bright. 


160  BOBROV. 

5. 
Mark  where  thou  standest  first:    and  whence 

thou'rt  come. 
And  whither  goest,  and  straight  speed  thee  home. 

6. 

The  woe  to  come,  the  woe  that's  gone, 
Philosophy  thinks  calmly  on  : 
But  show  me  the  philosopher 
Who  calmly  bears  the  woes  that  are. 

7. 
How  wise  is  he  who  marks  the  fleeting  day 
By  acts  of  virtue  as  it  rolls  away  ! 

8. 
Be  all  thy  views  right  forward,  clear,  and  even  : 
The  straightest  line  the  soonest  leads  to  heaven. 

9. 

Thou  wouldst  count  all  things,  proud  philosophy, 
Now  measure  space  and  weigh  eternity  ! 

10. 
First  purify  thy  heart :  then  light  thy  mind 
With  wisdom's  lamp,  and  thou  pure  bliss  shalt  find. 


B0BR0V.  161 

11. 

The  most  perverted  spirit  has  greatness  in  it, 
The  very  savage  bears  a  heart  that's  noble. 

12. 

Virtue,  though  loveliest  of  all  lovely  things, 
From  modesty  apart  no  more  is  fair ; 
And  when  her  graceful  veil  aside  she  flings, 
(Like  ether  opened  to  th'  intrusive  air) 
Loses  her  sweetest  charms  and  stands  a  cypher, 
there. 

14* 


BOGDANOVICH. 


FROM  THE  DUSHENKA. p.  8. 

"Twere  vainly  daring  through  dark  time  to  range, 

Seeking  those  sounds,  which  in  eternal  change 

Were  consecrate  to  beauty  :  its  short  day 

Of  fashion  each  possessed  and  passed  away  : 

But  let  the  poet  be  allowed  to  say, 

That  the  fair  royal  maiden,  youngest  child 

Of  th'  eastern  monarch,  whom  with  passion  wild 

So  many  sighed  for  day  and  night, 
Was  by  the  Greeks  called  Psyche — meaning 
(According  to  our  learned  ones'  explaining) 

A  soul,  or  spirit : — our  philosophers 
Thinking  that  all  that  's  tender,  fair,  and  bright, 

Must  needs  be  hers, 


166  BOGDANOVICH. 

Named  her  Dushenka  ;* — thus 

A  word  so  sweet,  so  musical  to  us, 

With  all  the  charm  of  novelty, 

O  loveliest  Psyche,  was  conferred  on  thee. 

Conveyed  from   tongue   to   tongue,    its  throne   it 
found 

In  memory's  archives  : — its  melodious  sound 
Now  breathes  the  angel-harmony  of  love, 
A  music  and  a  radiance  from  above. 


*  Dusha — Dushenka  its  diminutive,  a  word  expressing  great 
tenderness  and  fondness. 


BOGDANOVICH.  1&7 


FROM  THE  DUSHENKA. p.  49. 

Dushenka  !    Dushenka !    the   robes    that    thou 
wearest 

Seem  ever  most  lovely  and  fitting ; 
Whether  clad  like  a  queen  of  the  east  thou  appear- 
est, 

Or  plain  as  a  shepherdess  sitting 
By  the  door  of  her  cottage  at  evening's  calm  tide, 
Thou  still  art  the  charm  of  the  world  and  its  pride. 
Thou  fairest  of  saints  that  devotion  has  sainted, 

Divinest  of  all  the  divine  : — 
All  the  pictures  of  beauty  that  art  ever  painted 

Can  <rive  no  idea  of  thine  ! 


16S 


BOGDANOVICH. 


THE  INEXPERIENCED  SHEPHERDESS. 


A  POPULAR  SONG. 


I'm  fourteen  summers  old  1  trow, 
'Tis  time  to  look  about  me  now  : 
'Twas  only  yesterday  they  said, 
I  was  a  silly,  silly  maid; — 

'Tis  time  to  look  about  me  now. 

The  shepherd-swains  so  rudely  stare, 
I  must  reprove  them  I  declare ; 
This  talks  of  beauty — thai  of  love — 
I'm  such  a  fool  I  can't  reprove — 
I  must  reprove  them  I  declare. 

'Tis  strange — but  yet  I  hope  no  sin  ; 
So.nething  unwonted  speaks  within: 
Love's  language  is  a  mystery, 
And  yet  I  feel,  and  yet  I  see, — 
O  what  is  this  that  speaks  within  ? 


BOGDANOVICH.  169 

The  shepherd  cries,  "  I  love  thee,  sweet ;" 
"  And  I  love  thee,"  my  lips  repeat : 
Kind  words,  they  sound  as  sweet  to  me 
As  music's  fairest  melody  ; 

"  I  love  thee,"  oft  my  lips  repeat. 

His  pledge  he  brings, — I'll  not  reprove  ; 
O  no  !  I'll  take  that  pledge  of  love  ; 
To  thee  my  guardian  dog  I'd  give, 
Could  I  without  that  guardian  live  : 
But  still  I'll  take  thy  pledge  of  love. 

My  shepherd's  crook  I'll  give  to  thee ; — 
O  no  !  my  father  gave  it  me — 
And  treasures  by  a  parent  given, 
From  a  fond  child  should  ne'er  be  riven — 
O  no  !  my  father  gave  it  me. 

But  thou  shah  have  yon  lambkin  fair — 
Nay  !  'tis  my  mother's  fondest  care  ; 
For  every  day  she  joys  to  count 
Each  snowy  lambkin  on  the  mount ; — 
I'll  give  thee  then  no  lambkin  fair. 

15 


170  BOGDANOVICH 

But  stay,  my  shepherd  !  wilt  thou  be 
For  ever  faithful — fond  to  me  ? 
A  sweeter  gift  I'll  then  impart, 
And  thou  shalt  have — a  maiden's  heart, 
If  thou  wilt  give  thy  heart  to  me. 


BOGDANOVICH.  171 


SONG  FROM  THE  OLD  RUSSIAN. 

Hark  !  those  tones  of  music  stealing 
Through  yon  wood  at  even  : 

Sweetest  songs  that  breathe  a  feeling 
Pure  and  bright  as  heaven. 

Nightingales  in  chorus  near  thee, 
All  their  notes  are  blending  j 

Then  they  stop  their  songs  to  hear  thee; 
Silent — unpretending. 


172  B0GDAN0VICH. 


SONG  FROM  THE  OLD  RUSSIAN. 

What  to  the  maiden  has  happened  ? 
What  to  the  gem  of  the  village  2 
Ah  !  to  the  gem  of  the  village. 

Seated  alone  in  her  cottage, 
Tremblingly  turned  to  the  window ; 
Ah  !  ever  turned  to  the  window. 

Like  the  sweet  bird  in  its  prison, 
Pining  and  panting  for  freedom  ; 
Ah  !  how  'tis  pining  for  freedom  ! 

Crowds  of  her  youthful  companions 

Come  to  console  the  lov'd  maiden ; 

Ah  !  to  console  the  lov'd  maiden. 


BOGDANOVICH.  173 

"  Smile  then,  our  sister !  be  joyful, 
Clouds  of  dust  cover  the  valley  ; 
Oh  !  see,  they  cover  the  valley. 

"  Smile  then,  our  sister  !  be  joyful, 
List  to  the  hoof-beat  of  horses  ; 
O  !  to  the  hoof-beat  of  horses." 


Then  the  maid  looked  through  the  window, 
Saw  the  dust-clouds  in  the  valley  ; 
O !  the  dust-clouds  in  the  valley. 

Heard  the  hoof-beat  of  the  horses, 
Hurried  away  from  the  cottage  ; 
O  !  to  the  valley  she  hurries. 

"  Welcome  !  O  welcome  !  thou  loved  one  :' 
See,  she  has  sunk  on  his  bosom  ; 
O  !  she  has  sunk  on  his  bosom. 

15* 


174  BOGDANOVICH. 

Now  all  her  grief  is  departed  : 
She  has  forsaken  the  window  j 
O  !  quite  forsaken  the  window. 

Now  her  eye  looks  on  her  loved  one, 

Beaming  with  brightness  and  beauty  ; 

O  !  'tis  all  brightness  and  beauty. 


DAVIDOV. 


WISDOM. 

While  honouring  the  grape's  ruby  nectar, 

All  sportingly,  laughingly  gay  ; 
We  determined — I,  Silva,  and  Hector, 

To  drive  old  dame  Wisdom  away. 

"  O  my  children,  take  care,"  said  the  beldame, 
"  Attend  to  these  counsels  of  mine  : 

Get  not  tipsy  !  for  danger  is  seldom 
Remote  from  the  goblet  of  wine." 

"  With  thee  in  his  company,  no  man 
Can  err,"  said  our  wag  with  a  wink ; 

"  But  come,  thou  good-natured  old  woman, 
There's  a  drop  in  the  goblet — and  drink  !" 


178  DAVIDOY. 

She  frowned — but  her  scruples  soon  twisting, 

Consented  : — and  smilingly  said  : 
"  So  polite — there's  indeed  no  resisting, 

For  Wisdom  was  never  ill-bred." 

She  drank,  but  continued  her  teaching  : 
"  Let  the  wise  from  indulgence  refrain ;" 

And  never  gave  over  her  preaching, 
But  to  say,  "  Fill  the  goblet  again." 

And  she  drank,  and  she  totter'd,  but  still  she 

Was  talking  and  shaking  her  head  : 
Muttered  "  temperance" — "  prudence" — until  she 

Was  carried  by  Folly*  to  bed. 


The  original  has  Love. 


.WIPTOTs 


KOSTROV. 


THE  VOW. 

The  rose  is  my  favourite  flower  : 
On  its  tablets  of  crimson  I  swore, 
That  up  to  my  last  living  hour 
I  never  would  think  of  thee  more. 

I  scarcely  the  record  had  made, 
Ere  Zephyr,  in  frolicsome  play, 
On  his  light,  airy  pinions  convey'd 
Both  tablet  and  promise  away. 
16 


182 


HISTORY  OF  MAN. 


ANONYMOUS. 


What  is  man's  history  ?     Born — living — dying — 
Leaving  the  still  shore  for  the  troubled  wave — 
Struggling  with  storm-winds,  over  shipwrecks  fly- 

And  casting  anchor  in  the  silent  grave. 

B. 


!JHh 


NELEDINSKY  MELETZKY. 


SONG. 

Under  the  oak-tree,  near  the  rill, 
Sits  my  fair  maiden  at  evening  still, 
Singing  her  song,  her  song  of  love, 
Sweetly  it  warbles  through  the  grove. 

The  nightingale  heard  the  heavenly  tone, 
And  blended  the  music  with  his  own  : 
My  ears  drink  in  the  wondrous  strain, 
And  my  spirit  re-echoes  the  song  again. 

How  oft  the  zephyrs  have  brought  to  me 
Delighted,  those  accents  of  harmony  ! 
How  oft  have  I  blamed  the  jealous  breeze 
That  scattered  the  music  midst  the  trees ! 

16* 


186  NELEDINSKY  MELETZKY. 

Listen  awhile,  thou  nightingale — 
Echo  the  song  from  hill  to  vale  : 
Though  hill  and  vale  enraptured  be, 
Sweeter  the  music  sounds  to  me ! 


"N'ELEDINSKY  MELETZKY.         187 


SONG. 

To  the  streamlet  I'll  repair, 
Look  upon  its  flight,  and  say  : 
"  Bear,  O  fleeting  streamlet !  bear 
All  my  griefs  with  thine  away." 

Ah  !  I  breathe  the  wish  in  vain  ! 
In  this  silent  solitude 
Counted  is  each  throb  of  pain  ; — 
Rest  is  melancholy's  food. 

Waves  with  waves  unceasing  blend, 
Hurrying  to  their  destiny  : 
Even  so,  thoughts  with  thoughts,  and  tend 
All  alike  to  misery. 

And  what  grief  so  dark,  so  deep 
As  the  grief  interred  within  ? 
By  the  friend,  for  whom  1  weep, 
All  unnoticed,  all  unseen. 


188  NELEDINSKY  MELETZKY. 

Yet,  could  I  subdue  my  pain, 
Soothe  affection's  rankling  smart, 
Ne'er  would  I  resume  again 
The  lost  empire  of  my  heart. 

Thou,  my  love  !  art  sovereign  there, 
There  thou  hast  a  living  shrine  : 
Let  my  portion  be  despair, 
If  the  light  of  bliss  be  thine. 

Loved  by  thee,  O  might  I  live, 
'Neath  the  darkest,  stormiest  sky  : 
'Twere  a  blest  alternative  ! 
Grief  is  joy,  if  thou  be  nigh. 

Every  wish  and  every  pray'r 
Is  a  tribute  paid  to  thee  : 
Every  heart-beat — there,  O  there, 
Thou  hast  mightiest  sovereignty. 

To  thee,  nameless  one  !  to  thee 
Still  my  thoughts,  my  passions  turn  \ 


NELED1NSKY  MELETZKY.  18§ 

'Tis  through  thee  alone  I  see, 

Think,  and  feel,  and  breathe,  and  burn. 

If  the  woe  in  which  1  live, 
Ever  reach  thy  generous  ear,; 
Pity  not — but  O  forgive 
Thy  devoted  worshipper  ! 

In  some  hour  of  careless  bliss, 
Deign  my  bosom's  fire  to  prove  : 
Prove  it  with  an  icy  kiss — 
Thou  shalt  know  how  much  I  love  ! 


190         NELEDINSKY  MELETZKY. 


SONG. 

He  whom  misery,  dark  and  dreary, 
Robs  of  all  his  spirit's  strength  ; 
Hopeless — but  that  wasted,  weary, 
Nature  shall  repose  at  length — 
Not  a  joy  to  sparkle  o'er  him, 
Not  a  ray  of  promised  light ; 
Till  the  deep  grave  yawns  before  him, 
Till  his  eye  is  closed  in  night. 

Such  am  I ; — time's  changes  borrow 
All  their  interest  from  thee  : 
Life  is  but  a  midnight  sorrow, 
Thou  life's  sun-shine  veiled  from  me. 
But  those  hopes,  with  angels  seated, 
Life  and  death  can  ne'er  subdue  ; 
And  the  heart  to  thee  related, 
Needs  must  be  immortal  too. 


NELEDINSKY  MELETZKY.  191 

Can  that  spirit  ever  perish, 
Which  divine  emotions  fill  ? 
Thee  on  earth  I  loved  to  cherish, 
Thee  in  heaven  must  cherish  still ; 
Like  a  shadow  to  thee  clinging, 
Ever  following — ever  nigh  ; 
Up  to  thee  each  look  is  springing, 
Every  word,  and  thought,  and  sigh. 

Up  to  thee,  my  saint,  my  lover  ? 
Up  to  thee  my  soul  is  led : 
Spirit,  wilt  thou  deign  to  hover, 
O'er  my  green  and  grassy  bed  ? 
Wilt  thou  from  thy  throne  descending, 
Catch  thy  fond  one's  dying  breath  ? 
Wilt  thou,  near  his  tomb  attending, 
Consecrate  the  dreams  of  death  I 


192 


NATIONAL  SONGS. 


T. 


Upon  its  little  turfy  hill,  the   desert's  charm  and 

pride, 
The  tall  oak   in  his  majesty   extends  his  branches 

wide  : 
His   shadow   covers  half  the  waste,  and  there  he 

stands  alone, 
Like  a  poor  soldier  on  the  watch,  a  sad  abandoned 

one  ! 
And  who  when  wakes  the  glowing  sun,  thy  friend- 
ly shade  shall  seek? 
Or  shield  thee  when  the  thunder  rolls,  and  when 

the  lightnings  break? 
No  graceful  pine   protects   thee   now,   no  willow 

waves  its  head, 
No  sheltering  ivy's  dark  green   leaves  are  midst 

thy  branches  spread  ! 


NATIONAL  SONCS.  193 

Alas  !  'tis  sad  to  stand  alone,  thus  banished  from 

the  grove : 
But  bitterer  far  for  youth  to  mourn  divided  from 

his  love ! 
Though   gold  and   silver,  wealth   and  fame,  and 

honours  he  possess, 
With  none  t'  enjoy  them,  none  to  share,  they  are 

but  nothingness. 
Cold  is  the  converse  of  the  world — a  greeting,  and 

no  more ! 
And  beauty's   converse   colder  still — a  word,  and 

all  is  o'er  : 
Some  shun    my  presence,  and  from   some   scorn 

bids  my  spirit  fly  : 
Though  all  are  lovers,  all  are  friends,  till  tempests 

veil  the  sky. 
But  where's  the  breast  where   I  may   sleep,  when 

those  dark  moments  come  ? 
For  he  who  loved  me  cannot  hear;  he  slumbers  in 

the  tomb  ! 
Alas  !    I  long   have  lost   the  joys   of  friend   and 

family, 

17 


194  NATIONAL  SONGS. 

And  the  fair  maid  that  I  adore  looks  carelessly  on 
me  : 

No  aged  parents  on  our  heads  their  benedictions 
pour : 

No  children  to  our  bosoms  creep,  or  play  upon 
our  floor ; 

O  take  away  your  wealth,  your  fame,  your  hon- 
ours, treasures  vile, 

And  give  me  in  their  stead,  a  home — a  love — and 
love's  sweet  smile. 


NATIONAL    SONGS.  195 


II. 

Thou  field  of  my  own,  thou  field  so  fair ! 
So  wide,  extensive,  fertile  there ! 
Adorned  with  gems  so  gay  and  bright — 
With  flowers,  and  butterflies,  and  bees, 
And  plants,  and  shrubs,  and  leafy  trees — 
Thou  hast  but  one  ungrateful  sight ! 

See  there  upon  the  broom-tree's  bough, 
The  young  gray  eagle  flapping  now, 
O'er  the  raven  black  that  he  tears  asunder, 
Whose  warm  red  blood  is  dropping  under, 
And  sprinkles  the  moistened  ground  below  ; 
The  raven  black — a  wild  one  he  ! 
And  the  eagle  gray — his  enemy  ! 

No  swallow,  gliding  round  and  round 
His  homely  happy  nest,  is  found  ; — 


196  NATIONAL  SONGS. 

But  a  mother  is  seen  in  the  darksome  vale, 
Or  sad  by  the  raging  ocean's  tide  ; 
A  sister  sighs  on  the  fountain's  side, 
A  lover  weeps  in  the  night-dews  pale — 
The  sun  shines  forth — the  dews  are  dried.* 


*  This  composition  refers,  no  doubt,  to  some  historical  or 
traditionary  tale,  without  the  knowledge  of  which  it  would 
seem  unintelligible.  I  translate  it  as  rather  a  striking  speci- 
men of  popular  Russian  songs. 


NATIONAL  SONGS.  I9f 


III* 

A  young  maid  sat  upon  the  streamlet's  side, 
And  thought  most  tearfully  on  her  bitter  fate  : 
Her  bitter  fate,  and  on  departed  time — 
Departed  time — the  glad,  exulting  time  j 
And  there  the  lovely  maiden  robed  herself, 
She  robed  herself,  with  many  adornings  robed, 
And  waited  anxious  for  her  trusted  friend — 
Waited  for  her  trusted  friend  : — a  ruffian  he  ! 
He  played  the  ruffian  with  the  maid  and  fled  : — 
Alas  !  love's  flower  of  hope  is  withered  ! 

Well  may  that  lonely  flower  decay  and  die  ! 
She  calls  in  vain — she  wipes  her  tears  away  : 
Thee,  rapid  streamlet!  they  may  fill,  and  roll 


*  The  peculiarities  of  the  original  are  preserved  in  this 
song ;  such  repetitions  as  here  occur  are  quite  characteristic  of 
the  national  poetry  of  Russia. 
17* 


198  NATIONAL  SONGS. 

Over  thy  bosom — make  thy  bed  of  tears : 
"  I  had  adorned  me  for  that  faithless  friend, 
That  faithless  friend  is  fled  : — he  hath  stolen  all, 
All  my  possessions  but  my  grief : — that  grief 
He  left  in  mercy,  if  that  grief  can  kill. 
Come,  death  !  I  veil  me  in  thy  shadows  dim — 
To  thee  I  fly,  as  once  I  flew  to  him !" 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL 
NOTICES. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL 
NOTICES. 


LOMONOSOV. 


Michael  Vassiljevich  Lomonosov  was  born 
in  Cholmognie  in  1711.  He  was  the  son  of  a  sailor. 
He  studied  Latin  and  Greek,  rhetoric  and  poetry, 
in  Sakonospaskoe  Uchilishchce.  In  1734  he  en- 
tered the  imperial  academy,  and  two  years  after- 
wards was  sent  to  Germany  as  a  student.  On  his 
return  to  Petersburg  he  was  appointed  to  the  pro- 
fessorship of  Chemistry;  in  1751  he  was  made 
associate  of  the  academy,  and  in  1760  called  to  the 
directorship  of  the  academical  gymnasium  and  of 
the  university.     He  died  in  1765. 

The  Petersburg  Academy  of  Sciences  published 
a  complete  collection  of  his  works,  in  sixteen  vol- 


202  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

umes,  which  reached  a  third  edition  in  1804. 
They  comprise  the  following  remarkable  list,  ex- 
hibiting a  rare  diversity  of  subjects  :  among  them 
his  prose  productions  are :  Kratkii  Latopisetz, 
Short  Russian  Annals;  Drevnjeje  Rossiukaje  Islo- 
I'ije,  Oldest  Russian  History,  from  the  beginning  of 
the  Russian  people  to  the  death  of  the  great  prince 
Jaropolk  the  First,  i.  e.  down  to  the  year  1054  ; 
Rossiiskaje  Grammatika,  Russian  Grammar;  Kra- 
tkoe  Rukovodetvo  k  Krasnorcechiiu,  Short  Introduc- 
tion to  Rhetoric;  Pismo  o  pravilakh  Rossiiskago 
stikhomvorstva,  Letter  on  the  Rules  of  Russian 
Poetry  ;  Predislovie  o  polzce  Tcnig  tzerkovmkh, 
Remarks  on  the  Uses  of  Church-Books  ;  Slovo 
pokhvalnoe  Imperatritzce  Elisavetce  I.,  Eulogium 
on  the  Empress  Elizabeth  (which  he  himself 
translated  into  Latin)  ;  Slovo  pokhvalnoe  Impcra- 
toru  Petru  Vclikomu,  Eulogium  on  Peter  the 
Great ;  Slovo  o  polzce  Khimii,  On  the  Use  of 
Chemistry ;  Slovo  o  jevlenijekh  vosdushnikh  ot 
Elektricheskoi  silt  proizkhodjeshchikh,  On  Electri- 
cal Phenomena;'  Slovo  o  proizkhozhdenii  sceta  no- 
ruin  teriiu  o  tzvatakh  predstavljeiushchee,  On  the 
Origin    of  Light,   exhibiting    the  new    theory   of 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  203 

Colours  ;  Slovo  o  pozhdenii  Met  alio  v  ot  trjesenije 
zemli,  On  the  Changes  produced  on  Metals  by- 
Earthquakes  ;  Rosuzhdenie  o  bolshei  tochnosti 
Morskago  putt,  On  the  means  of  obtaining  the 
greatest  correctness  in  Sea  Voyages ;  Jevlenie  Ve- 
neris na  solntzce,  Appearance  of  Venus  on  the  Sun's 
Disk  ;  Programme  sochinennaje  tri  nachalce  chen- 
ije  is  jesncnije  Phisiki,  Programma,  introductory 
to  Lectures  on  Physic;  Opisanie  v  nachalce  1744 
goda  jevivshijesje  Kometi,  Description  of  the  Com- 
et of  1744  ;  Pervije  osnovanije  Metalhirgii,  Intro- 
duction to  Metallurgy  ;  Shestnadtzaf  piset  k  J.  J. 
Shuvalovu,  Sixteen  Letters  to  J.  J.  Shuvalov. 

His  poems  are — two  books  of  an  Heroic  Epic, 
entitled  Peter  f^elikii,  Peter  the  Great ;  T amir  a  i 
Selim,  a  Tragedy;  Dcmophont,  a  Tragedy;  Pis  mo 
o  polzce  stekla,  A  Poetical  Epistle  on  the  Uses  of 
Glass,  addressed  to  Shuvalov ;  Oda  na  Shchastiee, 
Ode  to  Happiness,  from  the  French  of  J.  B.  Rous- 
seau ;  Vanchannaje  nadezhda  Rossiiskoi  Imperii, 
The  Garlanded  Hope  of  the  Russian  Empire,  from 
the  German  of  Professor  Junker ;  eleven  spiritual 
odes;  encomiastic  odes;  forty- nine  laudatory  in- 
scriptions ;    poem  on  a  fire-work  ;    Poly  dor  e,  an 


204  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Idyl,  and  sundry  smaller  pieces ;  imitations  of 
Anacreon,  poetical  epistles,  translations,  &ic.  &c. 
Besides  his  philosophical  prose  writings,  he  pub- 
lished Rasgovor  v  tzarstvce  Mertvikh,  Dialogue  in 
the  Realms  of  Death,  between  Alexander  the 
Great,  Hannibal,  and  Scipio,  from  the  Greek  of 
Lucan ;  and  Rasgavor  utro,  A  Discourse  on  Morn- 
ing, from  Erasmus. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  205 


DERZHAVIN. 


Gabriel  Romanovich  Derzhavin  was  born 
at  Kasan  on  the  3d  of  July,  1743.  The  elements 
of  instruction  were  given  to  him  in  the  house  of 
his  parents;  he  then  studied  in  private  academies, 
and  afterwards  completed  his  education  in  the 
imperial  gymnasium.  In  17G0  he  was  inscribed 
in  the  engineer  military  service  ;  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  as  a  reward  for  his  great  progress  in 
the  mathematics,  and  for  his  excellent  description 
of  the  Bulgarian  ruins  on  the  banks  of  the  Wolga, 
he  was  placed  in  the  ranks  of  the  Preobrashenshe 
regiment.  From  the  year  17G2  he  was  promoted 
through  the  different  gradations  to  the  rank  of 
ensign,  which  he  held  in  1772,  and  he  obtained 
great  credit  for  his  prudence  and  ability  while  en- 
gaged as  lieutenant  in  the  corps  sent  to  reduce  Pu- 
gachev  in  1774.  He  advanced  uninterruptedly  in 
his  military  career  till  in  17S4  he  was  made  a 
18 


206  S-IOGRAPHICAL  AND 

counsellor  of  state,  and  appointed  to  the  govern- 
ment first  of  Oloretz  and  afterwards  of  Tambov. 
In  1791  the  Empress  Catherine  the  Second  gave 
him  the  office  of  secretary  of  state  ;  in  1793  he  was 
called  to  the  senate,  and  the  next  year  he  was 
made  president  of  the  college  of  Commerce.  In 
the  year  1800  he  was  appointed  to  the  post  of 
public  cashier,  and  in  1802  to  that  of  minister  of 
justice.  His  official  career  was  soon  after  closed 
by  his  retiring  on  his  full  allowance,  in  the  eve- 
ning of  his  days,  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of 
his  long  and  active  labours. 

Such  a  life  would  appear  little  calculated  for  the 
pursuit  of  intellectual  pleasures,  or  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  poetical  talents  ;  but  the  energies  of  these 
seem  to  be  alike  uninfluenced  by  the  burthens  of 
pomp  or  the  privations  of  poverty.  None  is  too 
high  to  bend  down  to  the  attractive  voice  of  song 
— none  too  low  to  be  raised  by  the  awakening  call 
of  the  lyre. 

The  most  celebrated  compositions  of  Derzhavin 
are,  his  Ode  to  God  ;  Felizia  ;  On  the  Birth  of 
Alexander;  The  First  Neighbour ;  On  the  Death 
of  Count  Meshchersky  ;  On   the  Swedish  Peace  ; 


CRITICAL  NOTICES. 


207 


The  Fountain  ;  The  Waterfall ;  Autumn ;  and 
the  Anacreontic  Songs.  His  Poems  were  printed 
in  four  volumes  in  1808. 

Of  his  prose  works  (his  official  ones  of  course 
excepted)  the  most  celebrated  are  :  Rack  ot  litza 
Kazanskago  dvorjenstva  Imperatritzce  Ekaterince, 
II,  Address  of  the  Kasan  Eagle  to  the  Empress 
Catherine  the  Second ;  Topographiclicskoe  op- 
shanie  Tambovskoi  Gubernii,  Topographical  Des- 
cription of  the  Tambov  Government;  Rcech  na 
otkritie  v  Tambovce  Narodnago  ichilishcha,  Ad- 
dress on  the  opening  of  the  Tambov  Public  School, 
republished  in  Petersburg  and  translated  into  sev- 
eral languages  ;  Razsuzhdenie  o  liricheskom  Stik- 
hotvorstvce,  On  Lyric  Poetry,  published  by  a 
Society  of  Amateurs  of  Russian  Literature  in 
1811. 


208  BIOGRAPHICAL  ANU 


BOGDANOVICH. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  KARAMSIN's  VffiSTNIK.^ 


Hippol'itus  Bogdanovich  was  born  under  the 
beautiful  heaven  of  Little  Russia,  in  the  village  of 
Perevolotchno,  in  the  year  1743.  His  father  was 
a  respectable  physician,  to  whose  affectionate  care 
and  to  that  of  an  excellent  mother,  he  owed  the 
first  rudiments  of  knowledge.  The  talents  which 
often  require  long  years  to  ripen  and  to  perfect, 
sometimes  exhibit  their  blossoms  in  very  early 
youth,  and  Bogd&aovich  while  quite  a  child  show- 
ed a  passionate  fondness  for  reading  and  writing, 
for  music  and  poetry. 

He  was  brought  to  Moscow  in  1754,  and  placed 
in  the  college  of  justice.  The  President  Shelje- 
bushsky  noticed  the  active  and  inquiring  spirit  of 
the  boy,  and  allowed  him  to  attend  the  mathemat- 

*  A  Periodical  Journal — See  p.  23-3. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  209 

ical  school,  which  was  at  that  time  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  senate.  But  mathematics  were 
nothing  to  him  ; — the  sweet  poetry  of  Lomonosov, 
who  now  began  to  captivate  his  countrymen,  was 
dearer  to  his  mind  than  all  the  transpositions  of 
lines  or  figures.  Nothing,  perhaps,  is  so  likely 
to  produce  a  strong  and  permanent  impression  on 
the  heart  of  a  young  enthusiast,  as  the  pomp, 
parade,  and  poetry  of  the  Drama.  What  wonder 
then  that  a  fiery  boy,  introduced  for  the  first  time 
to  its  witcheries,  should  be  led  to  some  act  of 
giddy  imprudence  !  A  youth  of  fifteen  once  pre- 
sented himself  to  the  director  of  the  Moscow 
theatre,  modestly  and  almostly  unwillingly  owning 
— he  was  a  nobleman — he  would  be  an  actor. 
The  director  had  some  conversation  with  him,  and 
soon  ascertained  his  love  of  knowledge  and  his 
poetical  ardour.  He  painted  in  strong  colours  the 
incompatibility  of  an  actor's  character  with  that  of 
nobility, — he  urged  him  to  inscribe  himself  in  the 
university,  and  to  visit  him  at  his  house.  This 
young  man  was  no  other  than  our  Bogdanovich, — 
that  director  was  no  other  than  Michael  Matvee- 
vich  Kheraskov,  the  poet  of  the  Russmd.  Thus 
18* 


210  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

did  a  lucky  accident  bring  this  scholar  of  the  muses 
to  their  favourite  bard ;  one  who,  possessed  of 
extraordinary  talent  himself,  was  not  slow  to  dis- 
cover and  to  honour  it  in  others.  From  him 
did  Bogdanovich  learn  the  rules  and  the  ornaments 
of  poetry ;  he  studied  foreign  languages,  and  ac- 
quired whatever  else  might  give  strength  and  en- 
couragement to  his  natural  powers.  Study,  it  is 
true,  is  no  creator  of  genius,  but  it  serves  to 
exhibit  it  in  all  its  most  beautiful  and  mighty  influ- 
ence. Kheraskov  gave  him  examples,  precepts, 
encouragements ;  and  in  the  university-journal  of 
this  period,  Polesnoe  Uveselenie,  we  find  many 
specimens  of  the  powers  of  the  young  bard. 
These,  though  yet  far  removed  from  perfection, 
are  striking  proofs  of  his  ability  to  reach  it. 

Besides  Kheraskov,  our  young  poet  possessed, 
while  lie  remained  at  the  university,  another  inval- 
uable protector  in  Count  Michael  Ivanovich 
Dashkov.  The  favours  conferred  by  rank  and 
influence  on  talents  just  developing  themselves, 
create  a  grateful  and  well-rewarding  return;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  fair  and  delicate  flowers  of 
youthful   genius  are  but  too  often   and  too  early 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  211 

blasted  by  the  cold  winds  of  neglect.  But  let  it 
be  said  in  Russia's  honour,  that  talent  has  never 
wanted  patronage  there,  especially  if  accompanied 
by  moral  worth.  This  was  eminently  the  case 
with  Bogdanovich.  Like  La  Fontaine,  in  whose 
poetical  steps  he  seems  to  have  trodden,  he  was 
distinguished  by  the  most  attractive  ingenuousness. 
Ere  he  was  eighteen  he  held  his  station  in  the 
great  and  busy  world,  but  held  it  with  the  simpli- 
city of  a  child.  Whatever  he  felt,  he  uttered ; 
whatever  pleased  him,  he  did;  he  listened  willing- 
ly to  the  wisdom  of  others,  and  fell  asleep  during 
the  tiresome  lessons  of  folly.  It  was  our  young 
bard's  good  fortune  to  live  with  a  poet  who  exact- 
ed the  productions  of  his  muse  as  the  price  of  his 
protection  and  his  counsels,  leaving  every  thing 
else  to  his  own  waywardness.  His  open-hearted- 
ness  often  led  him  into  perplexities,  but  no  sooner 
did  he  perceive  that  his  conversation  had  inflicted 
on  any  a  feeling  or  thought  of  sorrow,  than  he  la- 
mented his  inconsiderateness  with  tears.  He 
determined  again  and  again  to  talk  more  warily  ; 
the  resolution  was,  however,  soon   forgotten,  and 


212  BIOGRAPHICAL  AN© 

succeeded  by  regret  and  repentance  and  renewed 
vows. 

He  was  not  rich  ;  he  often  had  nothing  to  give 
the  poor,  but  sympathy.  Is  not  this  often  more 
grateful  to  the  receiver,  and  always  more  honour- 
able to  the  giver,  than  the  pieces  of  gold  extorted 
by  misery  from  the  coldness  of  pride  and  of  afflu- 
ence ?  Towards  his  friends  and  acquaintance,  he 
was  kindness  and  urbanity  itself.  On  one  occa- 
sion a  fire  broke  out  in  the  neighbourhood  of  one 
of  his  connexions.  Bogdanovich  sprung  from  his 
bed,  and  in  spite  of  the  bad  weather  and  the  dis- 
tance, hurried  to  the  assistance  of  his  friend,  clad 
only  in  his  night  garment. 

His  dwelling  was  with  an  estimable  family,  who 
treated  him  as  a  near  and  dear  relative,  and  he 
returned  their  kindness  with   ever-active  affection. 

We  must  here  linger  a  little  on  one  mark  of 
character,  common  indeed  to  all  genuine  poets ; — 
a  lively  sensibility  to  female  charms,  a  sensibility 
which  has  been  the  creator  of  some  of  the  sweet- 
est songs  of  the  choir  of  bards.  In  one  who,  like 
Bogdanovich,  was  born  to  be  the  poet  of  the  gra- 
ces, this  mighty  sympathy  could  not  but  be  early 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  213 

developed  among  the  sensibilities  of  his  character. 
In  its  origin  it  is  timid  and  unpretending — in  him 
it  was  peculiarly  so.  He  saw,  he  felt,  he  suppli- 
cated, he  blushed — and  uttered  his  emotions  in  his 
harmonious  songs.  Stern  indeed  must  have  been 
the  beauty  that  could  not  be  moved  by  that  melo- 
dious lyre ! 

In  1T61  Bogdanovich  was  appointed  inspector 
of  the  Moscow  university,  with  the  rank  of  officer. 
Soon  after  he  was  joined  to  the  commission  ap- 
pointed to  make  the  arrangements  for  celebrating 
the  coronation  of  Catherine  the  Second,  in  Mos- 
cow. He  was  fixed  on  for  preparing  the  inscrip- 
tions on  the  triumphal  gates  and  arches.  In  1763, 
through  the  recommendation  of  the  Countess 
Dashkov,  he  was  employed  by  Panin  as  a  trans- 
lator ;  and  at  this  period  he  published  a  journal 
entitled,  Nevinnoe  Uprashnenie,  Innocent  Recrea- 
tion, to  which  his  protectress,  and  the  protectress 
of  literature,  of  native  literature  especially,  most 
generously  contributed.  And  now  our  poet  soared 
in  loftier  flights  :  he  translated  most  felicitously 
many  of  Voltaire's  poems,  especially  that  on  the 
Destruction  of  Lisbon,  in  which   his  version  has 


214  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

added  greatly  to  the  beauty  and  the  strength  of 
the  original.  A  number  of  pieces,  distinguished 
for  the  exquisiteness  of  the  feeling  and  the  pecul- 
iar harmony  of  the  expression  directed  the  public 
attention  to  him.  Among  these  is  that  beautiful 
song  to  Climene  : 

Yes  !  since  bliss  is  now  my  lot, 
I  will  live  to  love  thee,  fairest: 
Thou,  that  /  may  live,  will  not 
]Vow  refuse  to  love  ine,  dearest ! 

In  1765  he  published  a  poem  with  the  title,  The, 
Doubled  Bliss.  It  is  divided  into  three  parts,  the 
first  of  which  is  a  description  of  the  golden  age  ; 
the  second,  a  history  of  the  progress  of  civilization 
and  of  knowledge,  with  pictures  of  the  misdirection 
and  misuse  of  the  human  passions ;  the  last,  on 
the  salutary  influence  of  laws  and  governments. 
This  undertaking  was  too  vast  for  the  youthful 
strength  of  the  poet.  The  work  had  some  re- 
deeming beauties,  but  it  made  little  impression 
upon  society  in  general,  though  at  this  period  the 
laurels  were  rapidly  growing  that  were  to  crown 
the  brow  of  Bogdanovich  ; — but  those  laurels  were 
then  unnoticed. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  215 

In  1766  he  went  with  Count  Beloselsky  as  sec- 
retary of  legation  to  Dresden.  The  amiable 
character  of  this  ambassador,  the  brilliant  society 
which  he  took  with  him  and  gathered  round  him, 
the  attractive  and  picturesque  neighbourhood  of 
his  dwelling,  his  high  appreciation  of  the  arts, 
made  the  poet's  abode  so  delightful  to  him,  that 
it  left  the  fairest  record  on  his  memory,  and  pro- 
duced a  happy  influence  on  the  character  of  his 
writings.  While  he  wandered  enchanted  on  the 
flowery  borders  of  the  Elbe,  whose  nymphs, 
worthy  of  that  magnificent  stream,  excited  all  the 
strength  of  his  glowing  fancy  ;  while  the  works  of 
Coreggio,  Rubens,  and  Paul  Veronese  charmed 
his  eye  and  guided  his  mind  in  the  beautiful  crea- 
tion of  his  Dushenka,  which  now  engaged  it ;  he 
was  at  the  same  time  busied  in  writing  a  Descrip- 
tion of  Germany,  and  in  all  the  duties  of  his  office 
he  united  the  charms  of  a  man  of  the  world,  a 
friend  of  science,  and  a  poet. 

He  left  Dresden  in  1768  and  hastened  back  to 
his  own  country,  devoting  himself  wholly  to  the 
cultivation  of  knowledge  and  the  charms  of  song. 
He  translated  many  articles  from  the  Encyclopedic, 


216  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

Vertot's  History  of  the  Changes  of  the  Roman 
Republic,  St.  Pierre's  Treatise  on  Permanent 
Peace,  and  the  Poem  of  an  Italian  writer,  Michael 
Angelo  Gignetti,  then  settled  at  Petersburg.  The 
subject  was  Catherine  the  Great,  which  led  to  his 
introduction  to  that  empress.  He  next  published 
a  periodical,  of  which  sixteen  numbers  appeared 
(f^cestnik  Petersburgsky) ;  and  at  last,  in  1775,  he 
laid  his  beautiful  poem  Dushenka  on  the  altar  of 
the  Graces.  He  ever  afterwards  spoke  with  en- 
thusiastic delight  of  that  part  of  his  life  which  had 
been  employed  in  this  work.  His  abode  was  then 
at  Petersburg,  on  the  Vussiliostrov,  in  a  silent 
solitary  dwelling,  wholly  wrapt  in  poetry  and  mu- 
sic, enjoying  an  enviable  and  care-divested  liberty. 
He  had  agreeable  acquaintances  ; — he  sometimes 
went  out,  but  always  to  return  with  keener  pleas- 
ure to  a  home  where  the  muses  welcomed  him 
with  renewed  fondness,  with  hope  and  fancy's 
fairest  flowers.  The  tranquil,  unuttered,  unuttera- 
ble joy  of  the  poet  is  perhaps  the  sweetest  and 
brightest  that  this  world  can  witness.  How  tri- 
umphantly do  the  favoured  sons  of  song  scatter 
the  misty  shades  of  vanity  and  the  more  palpable 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  217 

array  of  earth-born  passion  !  Who,  that  ever 
tasted  the  charm  of  such  enviable  moments,  does 
not  turn  away  from  the  sparkling  follies  of  the 
substantial  world  to  the  memory  of  those  holy 
hours  of  rapture  ?  One  energetic  and  harmonious 
line — one  well-conveyed  emotion — a  gentle,  grace- 
ful transit  from  one  thought  to  another — can  fill  the 
soul  of  the  poet  with  innocent  and  natural  delight, 
leaving  behind  it  a  soft  and  placid  gladsomeness, 
which  will  be  doubly  grateful  if  it  can  be  participat- 
ed by  some  sympathising  and  sensible  friend,  who 
can  enter  into  its  enthusiasm  and  forgive  its  excess. 
It  is  indeed  a  guiltless  and  a  spiritual  joy,  created 
by  an  effort,  which  effort  is  in  itself  enjoyment :  and 
then  it  brings  the  prospect  of  the  approbation,  the 
encouragement  of  the  wise  and  good  ! — But  envy  ! 
envy  !  the  pitiful  efforts  of  envy  itself  only  make  its 
triumphs  the  more  splendid — they  dash  and  murmur 
like  the  little  waves  against  the  firm  foot  of  the 
mountain,  on  which  true  merit  raises  itself  in  its  own 
majesty,  for  the  glory  of  its  country  and  of  mankind. 
The  story  of  Psyche  is  one  of  the  most  attrac- 
tive which  has  been  handed  down  to  us  by  classic 

mythology.     It  originally  conveyed  a  beautiful  and 
19 


218  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

impressive  allegory,  whose  charm  has  been  obscur- 
ed and  whose  interest  almost  lost  in  the  many 
embellishments  with  which  a  series  of  poets  have 
crowded  the  simple  tale  j  a  tale  in  fact  only  in- 
tended to  describe  the  nuptials  of  the  god  of  love 
with  Psyche,  and  the  consequent  birth  of  the 
goddess  of  enjoyment :  the  obvious  sense  of  which 
is,  that  when  the  soul  is  filled  with  love,  it  enjoys 
the  highest  possible  portion  of  pleasure.  From 
this  unadorned  fable  Apuleius  drew  a  charming 
story,  more  indeed  like  the  fairy-tales  of  modern 
days,  than  the  i*-v6ot  of  the  old  Grecian  age.  On 
this  production  of  Apuleius,  La  Fontaine  founded 
his  fascinating  Psyche,  adding  numberless  beau- 
ties to  his  original,  and  delightfully  mingling  verse 
and  prose — the  strikingly  impressive  with  the  play- 
fully good-humoured.  To  the  Psyche  of  France 
we  owe  the  Russian  Dushenka ;  but  our  poet, 
though  he  never  loses  sight  of  his  exemplar,  goes 
onwards  in  his  own  path  of  flowers,  and  gathers 
many  a  one  which  the  French  poet  overlooked. 
or  disregarded.  La  Fontaine  has  more  of  art — 
Bogdanovich  of  nature  ; — and  the  current  of  the 
latter    flows    in    consequence    more    refreshingly. 


CR1ITICAL  NOTICES.  219 

Besides,  Dushenka  is  wholly  in  verse,  and  good 
verse  is  certainly  greatly  better  than  good  prose, 
and  rarer  too.  The  most  laborious  efforts  of  art 
are  also  the  most  valued  ;*  and  thus  it  is  that  the 
purest  and  most  harmonious  prose  can  never  give 
to  a  representation  the  energy  or  the  interest  which 
it  may  derive  from  the  power  of  verse,  to  which 
indeed  whatever  is  mysterious  and  supernatural 
more  especially  belongs.  This  La  Fontaine 
constantly  felt,  and  sought  shelter  for  his  highest 
efforts  and  sweetest  fancies  in  the  regions  of  song. 
How  much  better  had  he  done,  if  he  had  made 
his  Psyche  a  continuous  poem !  Bogdanovich's 
Dushenka  is  so.  Where  exists  the  Russian  who 
has  not  read  Dushenka  ? 

This  production  must  not  be  weighed  in  the  scales 
of  Aristotle.  It  is  a  display  of  the  powers  of  a  gay 
and  joyous  imagination,  directed  by  good  taste. 
It  is  sportive,  excursive,  ingenuous,  faithful  : — 
Why  must  rules  of  art  be  intruded  here  ? 

*  This  is  a  maxim  of  the  French  school,  and  a  very  unten- 
able one.  The  characteristic  of  eminent  genius  is,  that  it  pro- 
duces the  same  and  even  greater  effect  without  laborious 
effort,  which  inferior  merit  requires  intense  application  to  ac- 
complish. 


220  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

[Karamsin  then  goes  on  to  compare  the  French 
with  the  Russian  fabulist,  giving  the  most  striking 
passages  from  the  Dushenka,  and  "strewing,"  as  he 
says,  "  the  grave  of  the  poet  with  his  own  flowers."] 

Is  it  surprising  that  such  a  poem  produced  so  great 
an  impression  ?  Six  or  seven  sheets  thrown  un- 
called for  into  the  world,  wholly  changed  the  fate 
of  the  author.  Catherine  was  then  reigning  in 
Russia.  She  saw,  she  admired  the  Dushenka — 
sent  for  the  poet,  and  inquired  of  him  how  she 
could  gratify  him. — It  was  enough — who  doubts 
the  taste  of  a  sovereign  ?  Nobles  and  courtiers 
learnt  Dushenka  by  heart,  each  rivalling  the  rest 
in  the  attentions  showered  upon  the  author.  Epis- 
tles, odes,  and  madrigals  in  his  honour  were  scat- 
tered profusely.  He  was  mounted  above  the  clouds. 
— Alas  !  that  the  destructive  influence  of  such 
distinctions  should  have  overshadowed  him  in  the 
brightest  epoch  of  his  poetic  talents.  He  was  thirty 
years  old — he  abandoned  the  muses — and  the  gar- 
land woven  for  him  by  his  Dushenka  was  the  only 
one  that  encircled  his  brow  in  his  listless  lethargy. 
It  is  an  imperishable  wreath,  no  doubt,  but  the 
friends  of  poetry  mourn  that  it  should  have  satisfi.- 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  221 

ed  him.  Even  the  thirst  for  fame  may  be  quenched. 
Our  poet  afterwards  wrote  much,  but  against  his 
own  will  and  against  the  will  of  his  inspiring  genius. 
Perhaps  he  would  set  up  no  rival  to  his  beloved 
Dushenka. 

From  1775  to  17S9  he  published  the  following 
works  :  Historical  Description  of  Russia — an  im- 
perfect essay,  which  however  is  very  well  written  ; 
only  the  first  volume  appeared.  A  Comedy  in 
verse — The  Joy  of  Dushenka  ; — The  Sclavonian 
Woman,  and  two  dramatised  proverbs.  Catherine 
encouraged  him  to  write  for  the  stage,  and  sent 
him  brilliant  presents  on  the  production  of  these 
pieces.  The  Sclavonian  piece  made  a  strong  im- 
pression. It  represents  the  festivities  with  which 
the  old  Sclavonians  welcomed  the  return  of 
the  twenty-fifth  year  of  the  reign  of  their  "  Great 
Princes,"  and  it  was  produced  just  at  the  period 
when  Catherine  had  swayed  the  Russian  sceptre 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

At  the  request  of  the  Empress  he  also  published 

a  collection  of  Russian  proverbs,  and  wrote  some 

small  poems  in  the  Sobescednik,  The  Companion, 

a  weekly  periodical,  which  appeared  at  Petersburg 

19* 


222  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

in  1788  and  9.  Many  of  these  graceful  trifles  are 
full  of  wit  and  gaiety,  and  the  song  "  I'm  fourteen 
summers  old,"  Ssc.  (p.  168)  has  become  one  of  the 
most  popular  national  songs  in  Russia.  He  also 
translated  at  this  time  the  best  eulogiums,  such  as 
Voltaire's  and  Marmontel's,  on  the  Empress,  and 
the  compositions  lost  nothing  of  their  effect  in 
being  thus  transferred  to  our  language. 

In  the  poet  let  us  not  forget  the  man.  He  was 
made  associate  of  the  Archives  at  Petersburg  in 
1780,  and  in  1788  was  elected  president.  In  1795 
.  he  was  dismissed  from  service,  in  which  he  had  been 
engaged  forty-one  years.  The  salary  was  continued 
to  him  in  the  form  of  a  pension.  He  left  Peters- 
burg the  following  year.  The  then  unfortunate 
state  of  Europe — those  dreadful  revolutions  which 
shook  individuals  as  well  as  nations,  added  to  many 
personal  sorrows,  excited  in  his  sensitive  mind  the 
ardent  longing  after  a  peaceful  solitude.  A  beautiful 
climate — the  sweet  recollections  of  youth — the 
bonds  of  early  friendship  and  of  brotherhood — in- 
vited him  to  the  fair  fields  of  Little  Russia.  He 
went  to  Sumii,  intending  to  glide  calmly  and  silent- 
ly through  the  evening  of  life,  in  the  circle  of  his 


CIHTfCAL  NOTICES.  22*6 

connexions,  and  reposing  on  the  bosom  of  nature. 
The  first  weeks  and  months  he  passed  in  those 
retreats  were  ineffably  happy.  His  spirits  had 
never  been  so  free  and  so  tranquil.  No  phantoms 
disturbed  his  peace.  A  pure  conscience,  the  re- 
collections of  fifty  years  passed  in  unbroken  but 
serene  activity — a  poetical  but  strong  mind — an 
active  strength  of  fancy — an  excellent  library — 
the  friendliest  union  with  good  men  and  beloved 
relatives — and  the  uniformity  of  an  ingenuous  and 
happy  life,  a  life  which  had  been  so  full  of  allure- 
ments— these  were  the  sources  of  that  happiness 
which  he  here  enjoyed — a  real  enviable  happiness, 
such  as  is  sought  by  all,  who  amidst  the  world's 
tumultuousness  strive  after  their  own  fame,  and 
their  fellow-creatures'  well-being  ; — that  happiness 
he  had  sighed  after  to  decorate  the  peaceful  though 
sometimes  gloomy  days  of  eventide  : — but  "  In 
this  world  where  shall  peace  be  found  ?" 

And  Bogdunovich  did  not  enjoy  it  long  : — an 
unfortunate  attachment  drove  him  from  the  haven 
where  he  deemed  himself  to  be  safely  anchored  from 
all  the  stoims  of  life.  He  abandoned  friends,  rela- 
tives, the  silent  abodes  of  peace  and  happiness,  that 


224  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

he  might  fly  from  this  ever-ruling  passion.  In  the 
years  when  the  sun  of  life  sinks  rapidly  towards  its 
setting,  and  the  calm  of  nature  seems  to  invite  to 
closer  communion  with  what  is  left  of  earthly 
pleasure,  it  is  then  the  passions  are  most  terrible. 
— Youth  is  supported  by  hope — but  age  has  no 
such  stay.  It  hears  alone  the  strong  voice  of  rea- 
son, which  will  not  approve  of  the  useless  murmurs 
against  destiny.  Every  heart  that  can  feel  will  look 
with  sorrow  on  this  period  of  our  poet's  existence. 

In  the  year  1798  he  again  returned  to  Kursk,  in 
whose  neighbourhood  he  had  long  been  wandering. 
Alexander  mounted  the  Russian  throne.  And  when 
every  eye  of  patriotism,  bright  with  hope  and  joy, 
was  turned  upon  the  young  monarch,  Bogdanovich 
again  seized  his  long  neglected  lyre,  and  received 
from  the  emperor  a  ring  as  the  token  of  his  approval. 
The  poet  of  Dushenka  had  had  the  honour  of 
gratifying  Catherine  the  Great ;  should  not  her 
illustrious  grandson  deign  also  to  honour  him  ? 

The  health  of  Bogdanovich  had  been  always 
indifferent;  in  the  beginning  of  December  1802,  it 
began  visibly  to  decay,  and  on  the  6th  of  January 
1803,  he  died,  mourned  by  his  acquaintances  and 
friends,  and  by  every  friend  of  the  literature  of  his 


CRITICAL  NOTICfrb.  225 

country  ;  for  he  had  not  yet  attained  those  venera- 
ble years  when  the  last  and  only  blessing  which 
heaven  can  confer  on  the  son  of  mortality  is  to  soothe 
and  brighten  his  passage  to  the  realms  of  eternity. 

It  is  said  that  the  character  of  an  author  is  best 
painted  in  his  works  ;  but  it  is  surely  safer  to  take 
into  account  the  opinions  and  observations  of  those 
who  knew  him  best.  And  here  then  we  must  listen, 
to  the  unvarying  voice  of  praise.  All  speak  of  his 
meekness,  his  feeling  heart,  his  unselfishness,  and 
that  innocent  gaiety  which  played  around  him  to 
the  end  of  his  days,  and  gave  a  peculiar  charm  to 
his  society.  He  had  no  pride  of  authorship.  He 
seldom  spoke  of  literature  or  of  poetry,  and  always 
with  an  unaffected  modesty,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  born  with  him.  He  loved  not  criticism,  which 
often  destroys  even  the  honestest  self-complacency, 
and  he  often  confessed  that  its  severity  would  have 
driven  him  wholly  away  from  the  exercises  of  his 
pen. 

His  memory  will  be  cherished  by  his  friends  and 
the  friends  of  Russian  genius ;  and  the  sweet — the 
ieeling — the  acute — the  joyous  poet  of  Dushenka 
will  be  honoured  by  the  future  age. 


226 


BIOGRAPHICAL  ANB 


KHEMN1TZER. 


Ivan  Ivanovich  Khemnitzer  was  born  of  Ger- 
man parents  at  Petersburg,  in  the  year  1744.  His 
father  was  of  Saxon  origin,  and  was  attached  as 
physician  to  the  country  hospital  of  the  Russian 
capital.  From  parents  of  distinguished  excellence 
our  poet  received  the  elements  of  a  careful  educa- 
tion. It  was  his  father's  wish  that  his  son  should 
succeed  him  in  his  profession,  but  the  unconquer- 
able aversion  of  the  latter  to  the  study  of  anatomy 
could  never  be  subdued.  He  was  enrolled  in  con- 
sequence when  thirteen  years  old  in  the  regiment 
of  guards,  as  sub-officer,  and  made  two  campaigns 
against  the  Prussians  and  the  Turks.  This,  how- 
ever, as  he  was  wont  to  say,  was  "  out  of  the  rain 
into  the  river" — from  the  theatre  of  anatomy  to  the 
martyr-chamber  of  surgery.  He  became  in  con- 
sequence an  engineer  in  the  Berg  cadet  corps, 
having  obtained  the  rank  of  lieutenant  in  the  Rus- 


CRITICAL  NOTCES.  227 

rfian  service.  He  won  the  love  and  the  confidence 
of  all  his  superiors  by  his  activity  and  uprightness. 
In  the  year  177G  he  accompanied  one  of  his  su- 
perior officers  through  Germany,  Holland,  and 
France  ;  and  after  his  return  to  his  country  applied 
himself  ardently  to  his  literary  labours.  In  1778 
he  published  the  first  volume  of  his  fables  ;  and  on 
its  reaching  a  second  edition  about  three  years 
afterwards,  he  added  to  it  another  volume.  One  of 
his  particular  friends  and  protectors  quitting  the 
service  at  this  period,  he  determined  to  do  the 
same.  He  had  no  means  of  living  independently 
of  his  salary,  and  being  compelled  to  look  round 
him  for  another  engagement,  he  soon  obtained  the 
consul-generalship  of  Smirna.  The  emoluments 
attached  to  this  office  led  him  to  hope  that  in  the 
progress  of  a  few  years  he  should  be  enabled  to 
retire  comfortably  from  active  life,  and  this  hop: 
nduced  him  to  accept  an  office,  which  banished 
him  from  his  country.  That  country  he  abandoned 
with  a  heavy  heart ;  and  on  separating  from  his 
friends,  whom  he  loved  with  indescribable  affec- 
tion, he  seemed  to  sink  under  the  thought  that  he 
was  bidding  them  a  final  farewell.     In  the  autumn 


228  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

of  1782  he  reached  Smirna  ;  indisposition  greeted 
him  on  his  arrival.  The  climate  was  perhaps  un- 
friendly ;  but  his  mind  was  more  keenly  affected 
by  his  exile  from  that  society  in  which  he  had  so 
long  breathed  and  lived,  and  which  had  become  a 
necessary  element  of  his  existence.  He  struggled 
long  against  his  illness : — it  subdued  him  in  the 
spring  of  1784. 

This  is  a  short  outline  of  the  serene  and  unpre- 
tending career  of  an  excellent  man  and  an  admirable 
poet,  whose  manners  were  as  ingenuous  and  un- 
pretending as  his  life.  In  many  respects  he  may 
be  compared  to  La  Fontaine,  his  pattern  and  fore- 
runner. The  same  goodness  of  heart,  the  same 
blind  confidence  in  his  friends,  the  same  careless- 
ness and  inoffensiveness,  and  the  same  absence  of 
mind,  which  formed  the  prominent  features  of  La 
Fontaine's  character,  were  developed  with  singular 
fidelity  in  that  of  Khemnitzer.  Of  the  last  trait  we 
will  give  an  example  or  two.  When  in  Paris  he 
once  went  to  see  the  representation  of  Tancred. 
On  Le  Cain's  appearance,  he  was  so  struck  with 
the  noble  and  majestic  presence  of  that  renowned 
actor,  that   he  rose  from  his  seat  and  bowed  with 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  229 

lowly  reverence.  An  universal  roar  of  laughter 
brought  him  back  to  himself.  One  morning  a 
friend,  for  whom  he  had  the  highest  regard,  related 
to  him  an  interesting  piece  of  news.  Khenmitzer 
dined  with  him  afterwards,  and  as  a  piece  of  re- 
markable intelligence  narrated  to  his  host  that 
which  his  host  had  bef>re  communicated  to  him. 
His  friend  reminded  him  of  his  forgetfulness. 
Khenmitzer  was  greatly  distressed,  and  in  his  per- 
plexity, instead  of  his  handkerchief,  he  put  his 
host's  napkin  into  his  pocket.  On  rising  from  table 
Khemnitzer  endeavoured  to  slip  away  unobserved; 
his  friend  saw  him,  followed  him,  and  tried  to  de- 
tain him.  Khemnitzer  reproached  him  for  unveil- 
ing his  weaknesses,  and  would  not  listen  to  any 
entreaties.  "  Leave  my  napkin  then,  at  least, 
which  you  pocketed  at  table,"  said  the  other. 
Khemnitzer  drew  it  forth,  and  stood  like  a  statue. 
The  loud  laugh  of  the  company  recovered  him 
from  his  trance,  and  with  the  utmost  good  nature 
he  joined  in  the  general  mirth. 

A  very  handsome  edition  of  his  fables  was  pub- 
lished in  Petersburg,  1799,  under  the  title  Basni  i 
Skaski  I.  I.  Khemnitzera  v  trekh  chastcekh,  Khem- 
20 


230  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

nitzer's  Fables  and  Tales.  The  third  part  consists 
of  posthumous  fables,  printed  for  the  first  time  in 
this  edition. 

In  Germany  the  works  of  Khemnitzer  have  been 
often  spoken  of  as  models  and  master  pieces.* 
Some  of  them  are  imitations  of  La  Fontaine,  some 
of  Gellert,!  but  they  are  principally  original.  They 
are  remarkable  for  their  purity  of  style — genuine 
Russian  character — their  naivete  and  descriptive 
charms— their  poetical  smoothness — their  singular 
simplicity — and  an  original  epigrammatic  wit,  most 
felicitously  applied. 


*In  No.  22  of  the  "  Freimtithigen"  Kluschin  speaks  very 
approvingly  of  the  fables  of  Khemnitzer,  and  gives  as  an  exam- 
ple "  The  Lion's  Mandate."  In  a  following  number  an  anony- 
mous writer  claims  this  fable  for  La  Fontaine.  It  is  singular 
enough  that  the  Russian  copy  was  never  written  by  Khemnitzer, 
though  it  was  published  in  a  volume  of  his  fables,  but  under  the 
title  of  Chu~Iiiicc  Basni,  Fables  by  other  Authors. 

t  The  imitations  are  always  distinguished  in  the  index  from 
the  originals. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  231 


K  O  S  T  R  O  V. 


Ermil  Ivanovich  Kostrov  was  born  in  the 
Vjetskish  province.  His  father  was  a  vassal  of  the 
crown.  He  received  the  first  part  of  his  education 
in  the  common  school  of  his  neighbourhood,  and, 
in  consequence  of  his  display  of  talent,  was  sent  to 
the  Moscow  university,  where  he  obtained  the  rank 
of  bachelor  of  arts,  and  was  advanced  to  the  post 
of  provincial  secretary  in  1782.  He  died  on  the 
9th  of  December  1796.  A  collection  of  his  poetry, 
which  had  been  scattered  in  different  publications, 
was  made  in  1802  in  two  volumes.  His  translations, 
which  are  much  admired,  are  Homer's  Iliad,  of 
which  the  seventh,  eighth,  and  ninth  books  were 
first  printed  in  the  European  Herald,  Vastnik  Ev- 
ropi.  It  is  said  he  offered  the  last  six  books  to  a 
bookseller,  and  the  liberal  tradesman  offering  him 
only  one   hundred  and  fifty  rubles  (about  ll.  10s. 


232  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

sterling)  for  his  labours,  the  offended  poet  threw 
the  translation  into  the  fire.  The  first  six  books 
are  the  only  ones  which  have  been  collected. 
Apuleev  solotoi  osel,  Apuleius'  Golden  Ass  ;  Ossian, 
from  a  French  version,  on  which  he  has  greatly 
improved  ;  Elvir  i  Zenotemsh,  a  poem  of  Ardouro  j 
and  Voltaire's  Tactique  in  verse. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  233 


KARAMSIN. 


Nicolai  Michaelovich  Karamsin  was  born 
in  the  province  of  Limbersk  on  the  1st  of  Decem- 
ber 1765.  His  earliest  instructer  was  Professor 
Schaden,  of  Moscow,  from  whose  care  he  was  re- 
moved to  the  university  of  that  place.  In  1789-91 
he  travelled  through  central  Europe,  and  published 
in  1791  and  1801  his  PVsma  Russkago  Puieshest- 
vennika,  Letters  of  a  Russian  Traveller,  which 
have  been  translated  into  English.  He  took  up 
his  abode  at  Moscow  on  his  return,  and  was  ap- 
pointed the  imperial  historiographer  in  1803. 
From  his  earliest  youth  he  exhibited  a  striking 
fondness  for  literary  pursuits,  and  a  great  number 
of  his  translations  were  printed  in  the  Journal 
Dcctskoechenie,  Children's  Reading  book.  The 
Idyl  Derevannaje,  The  Wooden  Foot,  was  publish- 
ed in  1787.  In  the  years  1792  and  1793  he  pub- 
lished the  Moskovskij  Zhurnal,  Moscow  Journal, 
20* 


234  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND 

in  eight  volumes.  In  1794,  two  parts  of  Aglaia, 
In  1797-8  and  9,  a  Collection  of  Poems,  entitled 
JLonidi.  In  1798,  his  Panteon  inostrannoi  sloves- 
nosti,  Pantheon  of  Foreign  Literature,  in  three 
parts.  In  1802-3,  Vastnik  Evropi,  European 
Herald,  in  twelve  volumes.  His  compositions, 
which  were  printed  in  the  newspapers  at  Moscow, 
he  published  in  1794  with  the  title  Moi  Besdcelkiy 
My  Trifles.  Besides  these,  have  been  published 
his  Rosgavor  o  shchastii,  Discourse  on  Happiness ; 
1798,  Julia,  a  Tale  ;  and  PokhvaVnoe  slovo  Ekat- 
erince  Velikoi,  Eulogium  on  Catherine  the  Great. 
In  1804  a  collection  of  his  works  was  printed  in 
eight  volumes.  His  great  work,  The  History  of 
Russia,  has  been  mentioned  elsewhere  in  this 
volume. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES.  235 


ZHUKOVSKY. 


Vassilj  Andrejevich  Zhukovs.'y  was  born 
in  1783.  He  was  educated  in  the  public  school  at 
Tula  and  in  the  Moscow  University,  which  he  left 
in  1803.  He  held  afterwards  an  appointment  from 
the  Russian  government.  In  1808  and  1809  he 
edited  the  Vcestnik  Evropi,  European  Herald,  ifl 
which  he  was  afterwards  joined  by  Kachenovsky. 
He  has  translated  Florian's  Don  Quixote  into 
Russian,  and  published  in  1810-11,  the  best  col- 
lection of  Russian  poetry  I  am  acquainted  with, 
Sobranie  Rushkikh  Stikhoivorenii,  in  5  vols. 
Most  of  his  productions  were  originally  printed  in 
the  above  periodical.  Of  his  poetical  composi- 
tions, the  most  esteemed  are  Marina  roshcha, 
Mary's  Goat,  a  tale ;  The  Moje  Boginje,  My  God- 
dess, from  Gothe  ;  JLiudmilla,  dean  ad  tzat  sjjjcsh- 
chikh  d<zv,  The  twelve  sleeping  Virgins. 


236 


THE  DEATH  OF  OSSIAN, 

FROM  THE  DUTCH  OF  HELMERS* 

There  he  sits  forlorn  and  faded, 

O'er  his  heart  bending  mournfully ; 

The  light  that  shone  in  his  eye  is  shaded ; 

Helpless,  joyless, — yes,  'tis  he, 

The  pride  of  story,  the  soul  of  gladness, 

He  bends  o'er  his  harp,  in  tears  of  sadness, 

On  the  foaming  strand  of  the  western  sea. 

There  he  is  seated,  lost  and  lonely, 

See  the  soul-melting  harper  there  ; 

The  rude  wind  scatters  his  silver  hair; 

The  dry  strings  move  to  his  wither'd  hand,  only 

To  show  that  he  summons  their  spirit  in  vain  : 

Their  spirit  is  fled — their  songs  are  dead — 

Alas  !  no  friends  of  his  youth  remain. 

*  See  page  76. 


DEATH  OF   OSSIAN.  237 

There  he  is  seated,  bathed  in  tears, 
On  the  ruined  stones  of  Malvina's  grave: 
Above  him  the  ruthless  storm  he  hears, 
He  hears  the  perilous  hurricane  rave  ; 
Like  an  oak  to  a  waste  removed,  when  torn 
From  its  native  sod,  he  droops  forlorn. 

Alas  !  long  years  bow  down  that  reverend  head — 
Thy  fellow-heroes,  friends  and  sons  are  gone  ; 
But  thou  shalt  live  in  thy  harp's  sacred  tone, 

And  still  bt;  cherished  ! 

In  song's  sweet  influence,  smile  and  shine  forever, 
In  song's  eternal  stream  of  fire  : 
Still  Morven's  sons  shall  hang  upon  thy  lyre, 
Thou  sacred  bard  of  Lutha's  river. 

There  sits  he  in  thick  darkness,  minstrel  old  and 

hoary 
Upon  Malvina's  grave-stone  perishing  : 
Ah!  Oscar's  noble  branch!  Ah  !  Lutha's  light  and 

glory, 
Snapt  is  its  stem,  even  like  a  rose  of  spring. 


238  DEATH  OF  OSSIAN. 

In  vain  thou  bidd'st  thy  heroes  wake  again, 
In  vain  thou  tell'st  their  names  to  the  wild  hurri- 
cane—— 

O  thou  abandoned  Gssian  ! 
Thou  art  upon  their  grave,  thou  summonest  them 

in  vain  ; 
They  are  gone  for  ever,  ever : — see  their  forms 
Shadowed  in  mists,  amidst  these  clouds  of  storms. 

Yes  !  in  the  foggy  vapours  of  the  even, 
Their  visiony  spirits  walk  the  solemn  heaven  ; 
Fathers  and  brothers,  bards  of  godlike  race, 
Minstrels  of  old,  the  darksome  welkin  shrouds: 
There  Fingal  sets  upon  his  throne  of  clouds, 
And  Oscar  there,  to  greet  thy  coming,  stays. 

And  thou,  Malvina !  thou,  the  pride  of  Selma's  halls; 
See  from  her  temple  of  the  storm  she  calls — 
See  her  from  her  holy  shrine  descending  down  : 
They  fain  would  welcome  thee,  sweet  bard  !  on  high 
With  them  to  glide  along  the  clouded  sky, 
And  in  the  palace  of  mists  to  keep  thy  throne. 


DEATH  OF  OSSIAN.  239 

Thou,  venerable  bard,  no  longer  linger ! 
Rise  from  Malvina's  tomb — so  sad  to  thee ! 

Rise  up,  thou  Caledonian  singer 

List,  CEdipus  !  to  thy  Antigone  ; 
They  shall  bear  thee  to  the  hallowed  seat, 
Where  the  bright  armed  Fingal  and  Oscar  meet, 
And  drive  from  thy  bosom  its  misery. 

He  rises — see  he  rises — but  ah  !  Torlutha's  walls 
Are  fallen  all  ruined  in  the  dust, 
Fingal's  bright  panoply  is  covered  with  thick  rust, 
And  now  in  Selma's  desolate  halls 
The  intruding  thistles  grow  : 
There  dwells  the  crafty  fox,  there  sports  the  timid 
doe. 

He  comes,  he  comes,  of  bards  the  king  ! 
Malvina's  praise  inspires  his  string  ; 

Full  of  sadness  he  looks  around 

But  ah  !  from  the  consecrated  ground, 

The  brightness,  the  pomp,  and  the  joy  are  fled : 

He  looks — in  tears  he  hangs  his  head 

Over  the  grave  beloved — there  all  his  joys  are  found. 


240  DEATH  OF  OSSIAN. 

He  sits  him  down  by  the  crumbling  bones, 
On  the  grave's  rough  lichen-covered  stones  : 
He  grasps  his  harp  in  his  withered  hand  :— - 
His  soul's  eye  sees,  on  the  clouds  above, 
The  mighty  ghosts  of  his  fathers  move  ; 
They  beckon  him  thither  to  take  his  stand. 
The  beautiful  vision  his  spirit  fills; 
His  bosom  is  glowing  with  holiest  fires — 
With  Fingal's  praise  his  old  harp  thrills, 
And  singing — the  mighty  bard  expires. 

It  vibrates  still  through  the  poplar  trees 
That  bow  to  the  winds  o'er  his  hallowed  grave : 
Theirs  are  unearthly  harmonies, 
Heard  by  the  shepherd  when  they  wave, 
And  he  thinks  of  the  bard  of  Selma's  halls, 
And  a  tear  to  Malvina's  memory  falls. 


Erratum.— P.  208,  note,  for  p.  235,  read  p.  234. 


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